THE    BANCROFT  LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


BANCROFT 

LIBRARY 

FREE  PRISONERS 


BY 

JANE   W.  BRUNER. 


"  We  have  all  to  be  laid  upon  an  altar  ;  we  have  all,  as  it  -were,  to  be 
subjected  to  the  action  of  fire" 


v 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


TY 

/ 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CLAXTON,  REMSEN  &  HAFFELFINGER, 

624,  626  &  62%  MARKET  STREET. 

1877. 


PZs 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1877,  by 

JANE    W.   BRUNER, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Selheimer  &.  Moore,  Pinters, 
501  Chestnut  Street. 


TO  HER 

DOWNINGTOWN  FRIENDS 
OF  1873, 


BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


vii 

•X£*u  /' 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I.  PAGB 

THE  EXCHANGE 13 

CHAPTER  II. 
AFTER  MANY  YEARS    ..........          17 

CHAPTER  III. 
CALIFORNIA  IN  '49 22 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  BROKEN  LINK  OF  LOVE 25 

CHAPTER  V. 
A  DOMESTIC  AFFINITY 29 

CHAPTER  VI. 
THE  DISCARDED  LOVER       .  34 

CHAPTER  VII. 
REVEALING  THE  GRAVE  OF  MURDERED  LOVE     ....          43 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
THROUGH  THE  GOLDEN  GATE  TO  THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME  .        .          51 

CHAPTER  IX. 

A  FAIRY  IN  THE  SIERRAS 56 

ix 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X. 
ON-LOWING  TIDES  OF  DESTINY         ......          59 

CHAPTER  XI. 
UNDERCURRENTS          .       .        .......         62 

'      CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW          ......         65 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
ROBBERY      ...........          71 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  MODERN  AGRIPPINA         ........          78 

CHAPTER  XV. 
GRAND  PATHWAYS  TO  A  CELL    .......         82 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

"WAITING  FOR  THE   VERDICT"     .....  .  86 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
DESPERATE  COMPANY   .........         94 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
THE  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER        .......        103 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
MRS.  NEAL  .....      .......        u3 

CHAPTER  XX. 
EYES  THAT  BESPEAK  STORMS      ......        .        n8 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
IN  PRISON    ...........        124 


CONTENTS.  XI 

CHAPTER  XXII.  PAGE 

THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER 126 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
THE  LOST  WIFE  FOUND  AND  LOST 129 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
TEMPTATION  CLOTHED  IN  LOVE 135 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE  FATAL  MISTAKE 143 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
PLIGHTED  LOVES 152 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

FOREBODINGS  OF  EVIL 154 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
THE  MARRIAGE 156 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
THE  BRIDAL  TRIP 162 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
"  GUILTY" 164 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
CONVALESCING 169 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
DEMANDING  THE  PLEDGE 175 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
THE  FLIGHT 180 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  FATAL  SECRET 187 


Xli  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
UNDERCURRENTS  IN  PRISON 191 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
JACK  HUNTER'S  UNFINISHED  STORY 196 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
THE  FATAL  SHOT  —  A  YEAR  AND  A  HALF  LATER    .        .        .        205 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
MRS.  NEAL  FINDS  HER  DAUGHTER 212 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
VENGEANCE 217 

CHAPTER  XL. 
ABSENT  FRIENDS 227 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
THE  GHOSTLY  APPARITION 229 

CHAPTER  XLII. 
THE  LIVING  TOMB 232 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 
AFTER  THE  WEDDING 237 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

UNRAVELLING  MYSTERIES     .        .        .  .     '   .        .        .        240 

CHAPTER  XLV. 
THE  HARVESTER,  DEATH    .        .        . 251 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 
FINALE  256 


FREE  PRISONERS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   EXCHANGE. 

IN  the  suburbs  of  New  Orleans  was  a  stately  mansion,  from 
which  two  tiny  coffins,  covered  with  rarest  flowers,  were 
borne  silently  and  reverently  to  be  laid  in  our  mother  earth. 
Following,  were  two  hearts  almost  broken  by  the  loss  of  the 
sweet  spirits  that  had  filled  them  for  a  little  season,  and  left 
them  dreary  and  void  at  their  flight. 

Over  the  way  was  a  vine-covered  cottage,  very  humble,  but 
ever  so  cheery,  where  a  young  mother  bent  anxiously  and 
lovingly  over  her  two  cherubs,  lest  they,  too,  might  take  wings 
and  fly  away. 

Fever  was  sweeping  the  purest  and  sweetest  from  mothers' 
hearts  and  breasts.  Every  hour  struck  a  death-knell.  Pesti 
lence  was  everywhere  in  the  heated,  poisonous  atmosphere.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  great  Creator  had  need  of  very  precious  jewels 
in  his  heavenly  mansion,  for  the  harvester  was  merciless. 

The  rich  man's  children  died  and  were  buried;  the  poor 
young  mother's  lived.  t 

For  weeks  after,  the  street  before  the  stately  house  was 
covered  with  straw,  lest  the  rattling  of  vehicles  would  disturb  the 
2  13 


14  FREE    PRISONERS. 

anguished  mother,  who  lay  at  the  verge  of  death,  calling  con 
tinually,  in  her  delirium,  for  Mrs.  Neal,  the  young  mother 
opposite,  who,  she  fancied,  could  bring  back  her  lost  babes. 

Though  Mrs.  Neal  and  her  aged  mother  had  but  a  short 
time  previously  moved  into  the  neighborhood,  and  lived  in 
great  retirement,  the  children  had  brought  the  young  mothers 
together. 

Mr.  Warren,  anxious  to  gratify  every  wish  expressed  by  his 
wife,  called  at  the  cottage  to  tell  Mrs.  Neal  of  his  wife's  oft- 
repeated  request,  and  asked  her  to  come  to  the  sufferer: . 

Mrs.  Neal  went  at  once,  and  by  one  of  those  unaccountable 
electrical  influences  we  all  experience  at  times,  Mrs.  Warren 
seemed  soothed  by  her  presence.  As  she  took  no  interest  in 
any  one  else,  and  her  mind  was  clouded  much  of  the  time,  the 
physician  expressed  to  Mrs.  Neal  the  hope  that,  through  the 
strange  attachment  for  her,  his  patient  might  be  saved. 

Unconscious  self-immolation  was  Mrs.  Neal's  greatest  charm. 
Her  life  belonged  to  those  who  needed  her.  She  at  once  took 
her  post  at  Mrs.  Warren's  bedside,  leaving  her  little  ones,  quite 
recovered,  to  her  mother's  care. 

As  time  passed,  Mrs.  Warren  slowly  but  surely  recovered ; 
but  nothing  could  rouse  her  from  the  dreadful  apathy  into 
which  she  had  fallen.  Mrs.  Neal  became  the  one  great  neces 
sity  of  her  existence.  As  soon  as  her  morning  duties  were  over, 
she  was  by  her  side  until  the  day  was  far  advanced,  when  she 
would  return  home,  put  her  little  ones  sweetly  to  sleep,  and 
often,  when  Mr.  Warren  was  obliged  to  be  absent,  would  spend 
an  hour  or  two  with  his  wife  in  the  evening. 

Three  months  had  passed.  It  was  a  dark,  gusty  night.  The 
wind  howled  and  whistled  as^  it  swept  through  the  windows  and 
doors.  Mrs.  Neal  was  sitting  by  Mrs.  Warren's  couch  reading 
aloud,  when  she  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  her  asking : 


FREE    PRISONERS.  15 

"If  God  is  kind  and  merciful,  why  did  He  take  my  children 
and  leave  yours,  Agnes  Neal  ?  " 

Mrs.  Neal  dropped  her  book,  and  regarded  her  friend  atten 
tively.  There  was  something  ominous  in  the  wild  black  eyes 
and  pale  face  before  her.  The  question  was  so  foreign  to  all 
their  thoughts  and  conversation,  so  strange,  that  she  shuddered ; 
but  it  was  for  the  safety  of  Mrs.  Warren's  mind. 

The  wind  whistled  in  wild  and  desperate  shrieks ;  windows 
rattled  and  doors  slammed  in  every  direction ;  servants  were 
hastening  to  close  the  house  before  the  coming  storm. 

Mrs.  Warren's  acute  nerves  seemed  to  have  been  touched  by 
some  electric  spark,  indefinite  and  incomprehensible,  that 
prompted  that  strange  question,  for  at  that  time,  in  the  garden, 
at  the  rear  of  the  cottage,  which  communicated  with  the  back 
street,  while  the  winds  were  wailing  through  the  vines  and  trees, 
a  man,  closely  muffled  in  a  large  dark  cloak  and  soft  hat 
slouched  over  his  face,  stepped  from  behind  a  cluster  of  bushes 
and  went  stealthily  to  the  window.  He  smiled  with  grim  satis 
faction  at  the  aged  grandmother,  who  sat  alone  rocking  and 
reading.  The  place  seemed  perfectly  familiar  to  him.  He 
passed  to  an  open  window,  the  rooms  all  being  on  one  floor, 
where  he  could  see,  by  the  dim  light,  the  crib  with  the  sleeping 
babes.  He  regarded  the  heavens  an  instant,  then  his  watch, 
and  with  an  oath  muttered,  "This  storm  may  bring  her  back 
too  soon,"  and  hurriedly  left,  as  he  had  entered,  by  the  back 
gate. 

In  half  an  hour  he  came  again,  surveying  the  place  as  before, 
and  finding  nothing  changed,  he  quietly  entered  Mrs.  Neal's 
chamber,  where  the  children  slept ;  placed  a  handkerchief  satu 
rated  with  a  powerful  anaesthetic  a  few  seconds  to  their  nostrils ; 
then  took  them  in  his  arms  and  softly  stole  away  through  the 
garden  to  the  back  street,  where  a  carriage  was  in  waiting. 


l6  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  between  him  and  the  occupant,  a 
woman,  who  handed  him  two  children  in  return.  He  hastened 
back  to  the  deserted  chamber,  laid  the  little  strangelings  in  the 
crib  where  Mrs.  Neal's  darlings  had  been  so  sweetly  sleeping, 
turned  out  the  light,  dropped  a  note  on  the  floor,  and  as  he  left 
the  room,  stopped  on  the  threshold  and,  looking  back,  with 
clenched  fist  in  menace,  hissed  between  his  teeth  : 

"Agnes  Neal,  you  have  lost  your  children,  but  you  still  have 
his.  Hug  them  for  his  sake.  You  would  not  love  a  poor  man, 
and  the  rich  one  would  not  love  you.  You  have  had  your 
choice,  and  I  have  my  revenge. ' ' 

The  wretch  hastened  from  the  house  to  the  carriage,  and, 
without  even  glancing  toward  the  occupants,  mounted  the  box, 
and  drove  off. 

Hearing  a  noise,  the  grandmother  entered  her  daughter's 
room,  but  seeing  no  light,  hesitated  an  instant,  when  a  sharp 
gust  of  wind  blew  in  at  the  open  door,  and  she  said,  im 
patiently,  "  How  careless  Agnes  has  been,  to  leave  the  door 
open.  The  wind  has  blown  out  the  light."  Then  closing  the 
windows  and  bolting  the  door,  the  old  lady  returned  to  her 
reading. 

The  wretch  was  right.  Agnes  Neal  would  not  leave  her 
mother  and  children  alone  when  a  raging  storm  was  imminent. 
Mrs.  Warren's  strange  question  hastened  her  return.  All  in 
terest  in  their  reading  was  thereby  broken  off ;  so  she  bade  her 
friend  affectionately  good-night,  and  went  to  her  mother's  side, 
where  she  sat  while  the  storm  raged  without.  Gradually  the 
wind  subsided ;  the  rain  poured  in  torrents.  Then  came  the 
dripping  from  the  eaves  and  vines.  All  nature  sent  forth  a 
strange  sobbing.  The  moon  peeped  through  the  drifting 
clouds,  and  a  balmy  atmosphere,  purified  by  an  autumn  storm, 
filled  the  earth. 


FREE    PRISONERS.   ..  I/ 

"Good-night,  mother,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Neal,  and  kissing 
her  mother  fondly,  she  left  her  for  the  night.  On  entering  her 
room,  she  opened  the  window  that  the  moonlight  might  stream 
in,  and  looking  out  over  the  earth,  a  sweet  smile  lighted  her 
bright  young  face  as  she  said  half  aloud : 

"  How  lovely  the  earth  is  after  a  storm.  She  seems  so  grate 
ful  for  the  refreshing  rain.  How  thankful  I  should  be  that  my 
storm  is  over,  and  my  heart  at  rest  again.  Oh,  Richard,  if 
you  had  come  back,  and  found  your  cherubs  gone." 

She  went  intuitively,  with  deep  feeling,  to  the  crib  and  kissed 
each  child.  Then,  while  she  knelt  by  their  side,  and  offered 
up  such  a  prayer  as  only  a  mother  can  offer  for  the  safety  of  her 
little  ones,  a  fiendish  face  peered  in  through  the  open  window, 
drinking  in  that  mockery  of  peace  with  infinite  satisfaction. 


CHAPTER   II. 

AFTER    MANY    YEARS. 

IT  was   a   wonderful   era  —  '49    in  California  —  a   new  Gol- 
conda  was  announced  to  the  world.     Plenty  of  gold    for 
everybody !   Gold !   The  lever  of  the  world  —  the  mainspring 
of  this  mundane  sphere,  that  is  said  to  be  governed  by  laws  of 
gravitation.     The   beautiful,  dazzling,  bewitching  gold  —  that 
builds  up  cities  and  destroys  them  ;  raises  men  and  lowers  them ; 
kindles  love  to  leave  it  ashes  —  the  severest  tempter  of  man 
hood  and  womanhood,  in  its  acceptance  and  appropriation, — 
a  glittering  thing  more  fatal  than  the  scintillations  from  the 
serpent-charmer's  eyes  —  a  magnet  that  draws  from  principali 
ties   and    hovels,  from  homes  and  brothels,  from  pulpits  and 
2*  B 


18  FREE*  PRISONERS. 

i 

prisons.  It  is  the  one  thing  that  strikes  a  reverberating  cord 
in  every  human  breast. 

"Gold  in  the  far-off  West,"  was  the  cry,  and  a  human  tide  went 
westward,  from  all  parts  of  the  earth,  all  nations  and  tongues. 
Gentlemen  of  broken  fortunes ;  villains  whose  only  fortunes 
had  been  dishonor ;  young  wives  and  mothers,  and  women 
whose  lives  began  anew,  for  better  or  for  worse.  It  was  a  con 
course  of  humanity  as  intricate  as  a  Roman  mosaic ;  yet  the  one 
object  of  pursuit  made  all  men  equal  —  patrician  and  plebeian 
labored  side  by  side  in  one  common  brotherhood ;  gentlemen 
did  menial  labor,  and  menials  were  as  gentlemen. 

There  was  no  law  of  society  other  than  Nature  makes,  when 
she  creates  nobility  and  infamy  —  two  currents  that  forever  run 
side  by  side,  yet  never  assimilate.  This  state  of  society  could 
only  last  for  a  little  season,  for  humanity's  streams,  like  rivulets 
from  the  mountains,  soon  find  their  centre  of  gravitation,  and 
form  classes  and  sects. 

On  this  inflowing  tide  came  George  Gray,  with  his  young 
wife  and  two  small  children.  Mr.  Gray  was  a  young  man,  the 
only  heir  to  a  large  estate  in  New  York,  but  was  possessed  with 
a  longing  for  adventure  and  quiet  enterprise  that  would  make 
an  estate  for  himself. 

His  wife,  although  from  the  South,  had' been  sent  at  the  early 
age  of  twelve,  when  her  mother  died,  to  be  educated  under  the 
care  of  an  aunt  residing  in  New  York.  There  she  met  George 
Gray,  who  was  their  neighbor's  son.  The  two  families  were 
intimate  friends;  so  the  younger  members  became  constant 
companions. 

Nellie  French  was  a  fine  musician,  and  George  Gray  played 
the  violin  with  more  than  ordinary  ability;  so  from  their  love 
of  music  arose  almost  imperceptibly  a  friendship  which  ripened 
into  a  pure  and  lasting  affection.  And  not  until  the  time 


FREE    PRISONERS.  19 

approached  for  their  separation,  did  they  in  the  least  realize 
how  essential  each  was  to  the  happiness  of  the  other. 

Nellie's  eighteenth  birthday  was  near  at  hand,  when  she  was 
to  return  to  her  Southern  home,  where,  from  her  beauty  and 
accomplishments,  she  was  to  become  a  bright  star  in  a  brilliant 
constellation  of  fashionable  society.  Nothing  was  talked  of 
but  her  departure,  and  George  first  thought  how  much  he  would 
miss  her,  then  how  much  'he  loved  her.  He  was  not  long  in 
making  his  sentiments  known,  and  they  were  betrothed. 
Nellie's  aunt,  Mrs.  Van  Winkle,  not  only  gave  her  hearty 
approval,  but  declared  it  had  been  her  most  earnest  wish. 

Nellie  felt  sad  at  parting  from  her  aunt,  who  had  been  to  her 
as  a  mother.  And  George,  too ;  it  was  hard  for  her  to  leave 
her  old  friend  and  new  lover,  but  all  bitterness  was  effaced  by 
her  fond  father's  tender  welcome.  As  he  held  her  at  arm's 
length,  regarding  her  attentively,  he  said,  with  a  shade  of 
sadness  in  his  voice:  "My  little  girl  has  grown  to  be  the 
likeness  of  her  mother,  when  I  courted  her  twenty-five  years 
ago." 

For  two  months  Nellie's  visit  was  a  perfect  ovation.  Gen 
eral  French  always  kept  open  house,  and  when  it  became  known 
his  accomplished  daughter  had  returned,  and  she  was  pretty, 
too,  there  was  no  end  to  visitors  and  invitations.  Nellie  had 
one  brother,  Walter,  six  years  her  senior,  who  was  always  her 
ready  escort,  and  the  General,  being  very  social,  usually  accom 
panied  them. 

One  morning  the  General's  trusted  servant  entered  the  break 
fast-room  very  excitedly,  where  Walter  and  Nellie  were  awaiting 
their  father.  He  whispered  something  to  Walter,  who  imme 
diately  left  the  room  with  him.  As  it  lacked  a  few  minutes  of 
breakfast  Jiour,  Nellie  thought  nothing  strange  of  the  occur 
rence,  but  picked  up  the  paper  Walter  had  laid  down  and  began 


2O  .  FREE    PRISONERS. 

reading.  After  a  while  she  heard  confused  conversations,  mys 
terious  whispers.  The  groom  dashed  down  the  avenue  on  her 
father's  fleetest  horse;  servants  ran  hither  and  thither,  and  she 
joined  in  the  general  tumult.  After  repeated  inquiries,  she 
learned  from  an  old  negro  that  the  General  was  very  sick. 
She  ran  to  her  father's  apartments,  and  there  found  Walter 
and  the  attendants  rubbing  and  working  over  his  apparently 
lifeless  form.  The  family  physician  soon  arrived,  but  shook 
his  head,  as  he  said  all  efforts  at  resuscitation  were  useless  — 
their  father  was  dead.  He  had  long  been  suffering  from  a 
disease  of  the  heart,  and  had  been  perfectly  aware  of  the  un 
certainty  of  his  life. 

General  French  had  lived  in  princely  style,  and  was  supposed 
to  be  wealthy.  As  it  often  occurs  in  such  cases,  at  his  death 
his  affairs  were  found  to  be  hopelessly  entangled.  After  the 
sale  of  all  his  possessions,  and  the  payment  of  mortgages  and 
other  indebtednesses,  little  remained. 

A  letter  full  of  sympathy  and  love,  from  Mrs.  Van  Winkle, 
welcoming  Nellie  back  to  her  heart  and  home,  and  one  from 
George  sympathizing  in  her  grief,  but  happy  to  have  her  return 
so  speedily,  provided  for  her  well  and  tenderly. 

There  was  little  choice  for  Walter.  As  a  poor  young  man, 
he  could  no  longer  mingle  with  the  revellers  of  fashion,  and  his 
first  impulse  was  to  leave  the  place  where  the  lightness  of  his 
heart  seemed  to  have  gone  out  like  a  meteor.  He  was  fine- 
looking,  with  prominent,  but  regular  features ;  tall,  stately,  and 
formal  in  his  address  to  strangers.  His  hair  was  almost  black. 
His  eyes  were  deep  and  fathomless,when  softened  by  affection, 
but  fierce  and  burning  when  fired  by  anger. 

He  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  charming  creature  of 
fashion  and  wealth,  but  could  not  marry  her  then  —  perhaps 
never.  He  told  her  so  in  his  straightforward  way,  but  with  a 


FREE    PRISONERS.  21 

shade  of  pride  and  coldness  in  his  manner,  which  some  sensi 
tive  natures  cannot  avoid  when  humbled  or  wounded. 

Belle  Burton  was  proud,  talented,  and  rich,  and,  although  not 
a  beauty,  had  many  admirers.  She  haughtily  released  her 
lover,  and  when  the  door  closed  and  he  was  gone,  she  thought, 
"  Go,  if  you  choose ;  there  are  many  who  would  be  proud  of 
Belle  Burton  for  a  wife." 

Then  there  came  a  little  feeling  of  remorse.  She  might  have 
been  wrong,  considering  Walter's  changed  circumstances.  She 
knew  he  had  loved  her  dearly,  and,  hard  as  it  was  to  admit, 
she  also  had  loved  Walter  better  than  any  one  else.  There 
was  no  human  eye  to  see  the  weakness,  so,  unrestrainedly,  the 
tears  of  real  regret  coursed  down  her  cheeks.  She  would  gladly 
have  called  him  back  and  told  him  she  would  do  her  part  in  the 
labor  of  their  life,  but  it  was  too  late  —  he  had  gone. 

A  servant  entering  with  the  card  of  Major  Wall,  a  dashing 
officer,  brought  back  her  old  pride ;  and  as  she  chatted  gayly 
an  hour  later,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  there  was  anything  in 
life  for  her  to  regret. 

Walter  left  quietly  with  his  sister  for  New  York,  without  a 
single  adieu,  except  to  the  faithful  old  servants ;  one  of  whom, 
a  negress  of  thirty-five  years  of  age,  Nellie's  nurse  in  childhood, 
accompanied  them.  He  remained  in  New  York  until  George 
and  Nellie  were  married,  then  left  to  swell  the  band  of  Califor 
nia  pioneers. 


22  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER   III. 

CALIFORNIA   IN   '49. 

ON  arriving  in  California,  Walter's  party,  lured  into  the 
Sierra  Nevada  Mountains  by  the  fabulous  reports  of 
wealth,  decided  upon  Grass  Valley  as  their  temporary 
home.  This  was  in  '49  a  beautiful  valley,  nestling  between 
high  hills,  through  which  a  mountain  stream  went  leisurely  on 
its  way,  singing  to  the  wild  flowers  that  decorated  its  borders, 
like  a  weary  spirit  after  a  toilsome  day  chanting  its  lullaby  as 
it  sank  to  rest.  As  if  it  had  gained  new  force  and  vigor  by  this 
gentle  interlude,  one  would  scarcely  recognize  this  peaceful, 
murmuring  stream  a  few  miles  distant,  in  the  foaming,  dashing 
waters  that  madly  plunged  over  rocks  and  precipices.  Grass 
Valley  was  so  called  from  its  luxuriant  growth  of  grass,  which, 
in  its  emerald  beauty,  would  have  done  honor  to  old  Erin. 
The  surrounding  hills  and  mountains  were  covered  with  lofty 
pine-trees,  with  thick  undergrowth  of  balsam,  manzanita,  and 
chaparral,  beneath  which  clustered  fragrant  pinks,  delicate 
roses,  and  myriads  of  exquisite  flowers,  that  would  have  graced 
a  princely  estate ;  yet  there,  in  the  wilderness,  they  bloomed 
unplucked  and  unappreciated,  and  only  the  great  Giver  of 
blessings  knew  for  what  strange  purpose.  The  giant  grizzly 
bear  passed  them  by  grumly.  The  lions  and  the  wild  cats 
heeded  them  not,  and  the  bushes,  in  whose  branches  nestled 
quail,  doves,  and  beautiful  singing-birds,  only  paid  them 
obeisance  when  bowed  by  the  weight  of  their  fair  occu 
pants.  The  patrician  pines  sighed  and  wailed  over  a  scene  so 
enchanting,  lonely,  and  wild ;  but  the  arrival  of  the  pioneers 
changed  all  this — the  emerald  sward  covered  glittering  gold, 


FREE    PRISONERS.  23 

and  the  murmuring  water  nestled  in  its  bosom  precious  treas 
ures,  that  caused  its  peace  to  be  disturbed  and  its  crystal  purity 
to  be  converted  into  a  muddy  stream.  The  wild  flowers  ceased 
to  grow  upon  its  borders,  for  the  busy  hand  of  man  trans 
formed  the  fairy  land  into  a  scene  of  confusion  and  desolation, 
and  the  wavering  pines  moaned  a  pitiful  dirge  over  the  havoc, 
done  the  enchanting  Grass  Valley. 

Four  years  later,  George  and  Nellie  came  to  make  their  home 
in  this  mountain  town,  with  their  two  little  children  and  the 
faithful  Sofie. 

Walter  had  a  nice  little  cottage  in  readiness  for  their  recep 
tion,  but  it  was  a  comical  little  home  in  comparison  with  the 
luxurious  one  they  had  left  in  New  York.  The  furniture  of  this 
pioneer  home  was  principally  of  mountain  manufacture  —  un- 
painted  pine.  There  was  a  lack  of  many  domestic  comforts, 
which  was  amply  supplied  after  Nellie's  unpacking  process. 
.  One  might  have  fancied  that  the  magic  wand  of  an  enchant 
ress  had  been  waved  over  the  plain  little  home,  to  make  it 
inviting  and  cosy.  The  table  had  a  snowy  cover  and  was  fur 
nished  with  choice  books.  In  one  corner  stood  a  cottage  piano, 
near  by  lay  a  violin.  A  crimson  and  gold-striped  cloth  covered 
the  dining-table,  for  this  snug  little  place  served  as  parlor, 
dining-room,  and  family  sitting-room. 

Servants  were  not  to  be  had,  so  Nellie  assumed  the  care  of 
the  children,  while  Sofie  was  installed  as  cook  and  general 
house-maid. 

"  What  can  a  New  York  gentleman  know  of  the  hard,  wild 
life  of  a  California  pioneer?"  was  a  question  Walter  asked 
himself  with  considerable  trepidation,  as  he  welcomed  George 
to  his  mountain  home.  He  found  him  a  faithful,  industrious 
young  man,  who  had  seen  only  the  sunny  side  of  life,  but 
cheerfully  accepted  discomforts.  He  aided  him  in  business, 


24  FREE    PRISONERS. 

and  in  return  felt  a  fatherly  sort  of  care  and  interest  in  his  new 
friend  and  brother,  from  his  greater  experience  of  life  and  its 
trials. 

They  were  strangely  different.  George,  rather  fair,  was 
tender  and  delicate,  almost  to  effeminacy,  and  was  perfectly 
happy  with  his  wife  and  babies.  He  soon  came  to  regard 
Walter  as  a  shield  between  him  and  the  perplexities  of  life. 
As  for  the  world  at  large,  he  seemed  to  care  as  little  for  it  as 
he  knew  of  it.  On  the  other  hand,  Walter  had  seen  all  phases 
and  forms  of  humanity  —  from  the  experience  of  a  youth  passed 
under  the  indulgent  care  of  a  mother,  who  idolized  him,  to  that 
of  early  manhood,  as  the  flattered,  petted  idol  of  aristocratic 
society,  and  afterwards  hurled  at  one  blow  from  this  pedestal 
of  fortune  to  poverty.  He  had  no  profession  ;  why  should  he 
have  ?  Was  he  not  the  heir  to  a  large  estate  ?  His  education 
had  been  such  as  to  fit  him  for  society,  to  control  his  slaves, 
to  entertain  and  fill  his  father's  place  as  the  son  of  General 
french  should,  when  the  haughty,  but  hospitable  General 
would  be  laid  in  the  family  vault. 

This  polished  Southern  gentleman  found  himself  almost  help 
less,  at  first,  in  the  vocation  of  a  California  pioneer ;  but  he  had 
a  stout,  brave  heart,  always  ready  to  try ;  and  the  rapidity  with 
which  he  learned  from  that  stern  teacher  necessity,  astonished 
even  himself. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  25 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   BROKEN    LINK    OF   LOVE. 

YEARS  passed  with  little  change  in  the  happy,  monotonous 
life  of  the  inmates  of  the  cottage.  The  mill  still  stamped 
t  with  its  steady  beat  the  crystal  quartz.  The  bed  of  the 
little  stream  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  was  almost  dry,  and  the 
muddy  water  dashed  furiously  along  in  sluice-boxes  which  the 
miners  had  constructed  in  their  placer-diggings.  The  sur 
rounding  hills  had  lost  many  waving  pines,  but  neat  cottages 
marked  their  places.  Here  and  there  were  piles  of  yellow 
earth  dug  up  by  ambitious  miners  in  search  of  gold.  Afar  off 
came  the  dull  sound  from  distant  mills.  Heavily  loaded  teams 
went  slowly  clambering  over  the  uneven  roads,  with  precious 
burdens,  from  mines  to  mills.  It  was  a  busy  place,  and  many 
fortunes  were  dug  out  of  those  once  beautiful  green  hills,  with 
their  forest  of  waving  pines. 

One  evening,  Walter  returned  from  the  post-office  with  a 
package  of  letters  from  home,  as  the  Eastern  States  were  gener 
ally  designated.  These  letters  came  every  fortnight,  and 
many  unsuccessful  miners  were  comforted  and  encouraged  by 
the  precious  burdens  the  steamers  bore  to  the  Western  shore 
every  two  weeks. 

He  handed  one  to  Nellie,  saying : 

"Read  this,  Nellie;  it  is  from  Belle  Burton.  You  remem 
ber  her,  do  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  perfectly,"  answered  Nellie;  reading  the  letter. 

"  She  and  I  were  brought  up  something  like  you  and  George," 
resumed  Walter;  "were  engaged  when  very  young,  and  were 
to  have  been  married  when  she  became  twenty.  She  says, 
3 


26  FREE    PRISONERS. 

'  after  years  of  fruitless  effort, '  she  has  in  a  most  unaccountable 
manner  discovered  my  whereabouts,  and  gives  me  a  character 
istic  feminine  lecture,  as  you  will  see. ' ' 

"I  do  not  blame  her,"  said  Nellie,  returning  the  letter. 
"If  you  have  broken  your  promise,  her  displeasure  is  pardon 
able." 

"You  do  not  understand  the  case,  little  sister.  I  have  done 
nothing  of  the  kind.  Our  engagement  was  broken  off  by 
mutual  consent ;  and  I  supposed  she  had  married  some  dashing 
fellow  long  before  this." 

"It  seems  she  has  neither  forgotten  you  nor  your  engage 
ment,  and  alludes,  in  a  lady-like  manner,  to  her  estate  being  at 
your  command.  As  she  has  taken  the  trouble  to  find  out 
where  you  are,  and  has  written  you  the  first  letter  after  your 
neglect,  I  think  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  renew  your  old 
friendship.  And  who  knows?  you  may  eventually  marry  her. 
She  must  love  you,  or  she  would  not  have  written  you  that 
letter;  besides,  she  is  rich." 

Nellie  spoke  thoughtlessly,  for  riches  had  no  weight  in  her 
honest  decision. 

Walter's  face  flushed,  as  he  asked,  bitterly : 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  marry  her  for  her  money  ?  " 

"  I  do  you  no  such  injustice,  dear  Walter.  But  when  you 
loved  a  young  lady  from  childhood,  and  were  engaged  to  her 
for  years,  I  do  not  think  a  fortune  in  her  possession  should  be 
any  obstacle,  especially  when  your  position  was  equal,  if  not 
superior,  to  hers  at  the  time  of  your  engagement.  I  am  sure 
no  one  would  accuse  you  of  marrying  for  money  under  such 
circumstances.  Besides,  you  are  not  poor. ' ' 

"  You  have  a  wonderful  facility  for  arguing  away  all  difficul 
ties,  Nellie ;  but  I  doubt  if  we  would  even  be  congenial  friends 
now.  Our  lives  for  years  past  have  necessarily  been  so  differ- 


FREE    PRISONERS.  2? 

cut,  that  I  do  not  feel  there  is  any  tie  to  bind  me  to  the  fancies 
of  my  youth. ' ' 

"Surely,  the  words  of  betrothal  that  bound  your  young  life 
to  that  of  Belle  Burton  are  a  tie  that  should  not  be  lightly  cast 
off.  It  is  a  matter  of  honor.  She  has  been  waiting  for  years, 
hoping  for  your  return,  and  still  you  did  not  come.  Go  at 
once,  Walter,"  pleaded  Nellie,  "to  your  patient  Belle.  Tell 
her  she  need  pine  no  longer  for  her  truant  lover,  but  rest  her 
heart  in  your  keeping.  Bring  her  out  to  our  mountain  home, 
and  we  will  all  be  sweet,  good  friends  together." 

"  Do  not  waste  your  sentiment,  little  sister;  the  case  in  hand 
is  not  worth  it.  I  assure  you,  Belle  would  find  this  rough  life 
little  to  her  taste.  You  do  not  understand  that  the  charming, 
witty  Belle,  with  her  cold  conceit,  has  fooled  with  her  admirers 
until  she  has  unwittingly  flirted  herself  into  the  unredeemable 
realm  of  old  maids,  and  thinks  a  cast-off  lover  in  a  wilder 
ness  better  than  none  at  all.  With  regard  to  her  fruitless 
efforts  to  find  me,  she  knew  perfectly  well,  by  sending  a  few 
lines  to  Aunt  Harriet  Van  Winkle,  she  could  get  my  address. 
I  am  not  so  easily  caught,  my  dear,  even  by  an  expert  angler. 
You  will  have  your  model  brother  on  your  hands  now,  hence 
forth,  and  forevermore.  I  am  a  confirmed  old  bachelor.  The 
disease  has  become  chronic  —  first,  from  necessity;  second,  from 
habit,  and  third,  and  lastly,  from  inclination." 

"  Nonsense  !  Walter.  I  despise  old  bachelors.  They  are 
such  selfish,  unfeeling  mortals.  But  you  will,  at  least,  write 
Belle  a  nice  letter?" 

"Yes,  Nellie,  I  will  write  her,  and  say  anything  you  like. 
For  instance,  if  my  business  prospers,  I  may  pay  a  visit  East 
within  the  next  quarter  of  a  century,  and  if  she  can  love  such  a 
sunburnt  heathen  as  I  have  become  — who  knows  ?  —  my  tender, 


28  FREE     PRISONERS. 

susceptible,  yielding  heart  may  succumb  to  the  infatuations  and 
tender  outbursts  of  an  old  maid's  first  passion." 

"  You  cynical  old  bachelor  !  You  do  i\ot  deserve  to  have  a 
wife  !  "  said  Nellie,  sharply.  "  There  you  sit,  making  sport  of 
your  old  sweetheart,  without  the  least  conscience.  Do  not  let 
me  see  you  again  before  dinner.  You  are  getting  worse  and 
worse  every  day.  Even  my  patience  is  becoming  exhausted." 

"  I  never  saw  you  so  provoked  with  me  before,  Nellie,"  said 
Walter,  coaxingly.  "  I  suppose  I  am  a  crusty  fellow ;  but  never 
mind,  I  will  try  to  be  better  in  future.  You  are  the  only 
sincere  admirer  I  ever  had,  and  I  could  not  lose  your  sweet, 
unselfish  affection.  I  will  do  anything  you  may  command,  to 
make  amends  for  my  unfeeling  remarks  toward  that  young  lady 
of  uncertain  age,  but  get  married,  and  that  —  well,  I  vow  I 
never  will  have  the  courage  to  attempt  to  go  in  double  team." 

"No,  you  prefer  tandem,  with  your  sweetheart  behind," 
and  Nellie  smiled  in  spite  of  her  anger. 

"You  deserve  a  kiss  for  that,  Nell.     Good-by  till  dinner." 

Walter  passed  down  the  well-beaten  path  to  the  mill,  and 
thought,  "  What  a  treasure  that  Nellie  is.  I  believe  she  would 
be  contented  under  a  tent,  with  bread-and-water  diet,  if  every 
one  about  her  was  comfortable.  She  never  seems  to  think  of 
herself  at  all,  but  is  continually  looking  after  the. happiness  and 
pleasure  of  others.  If  all  women  had  such  dispositions,  and 
were  willing  to  make  the  sacrifices  she  does,  we  would  have  a 
very  different  world,  perhaps  a  happier  one." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  2g 

CHAPTER   V. 

A   DOMESTIC   AFFINITY. 

IT  was  the  habit  of  the  family  to  congregate  on  the  portico 
after  dinner  and  have  a  general  review  of  the  day's  doings. 

There  were  no  places  of  entertainment,  and  few  congenial  per 
sons  in  that  mountain  village,  so  they  were  greatly  dependent 
upon  one  another  for  amusement,  and  the  most  trifling  incidents 
of  the  day  were  of  importance.  To  watch  the  sunset  was  the 
closing  duty  of  each  day,  and  they  never  wearied  of  the  grand 
and  varied  freaks  of  nature's  artist  among  the  pine-covered 
Sierras,  that  vie  in  warmth  and  coloring  with  those  of  tropical 
regions. 

"  There  is  smoke  from  the  chimney  in  the  new  addition  of 
•Captain  Wetherell's  house.  I  wonder  if  it  is  finished,"  asked 
Walter,  carelessly,  as  he  laid  aside  the  paper  he  had  been  read 
ing. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  answered  Nellie.  "Mrs. 
Williams  was  here  this  afternoon  with  her  sewing,  and  she  told 
me  ever  so  much  news." 

"  She  can  tell  you  news,  if  any  one  can,"  said  Walter.  "If 
she  has  none  on  hand,  she  is  a  good  manufacturer." 

"I  am  sorry  you  do  not  like  her,"  said  Nellie.  "  I  think 
she  is  a  very  good  woman,  although  she  does  know  everything 
that  is  taking  place  in  this  little  town.  She  told  me  Captain 
Wetherell's  house  was  completely  finished,  and  he  expects  his 
wife  and  daughter  next  week.  And  she  told  me,  too,  that  the 
Captain  and  his  wife  had  not  lived  together  for  a  number  of 
years.  That  is,  dear,  they  live  in  the  same  house;  but  —  well, 
they  do  live  together  in  the  eyes  of  the  world." 
3* 


30  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"I  understand  exactly,"  laughed  Walter.  "You  mean  they 
live  together  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  but  they  do  not  see  it  in 
the  same  light." 

"Walter,  you  are  getting  in  the  habit  of  using  California 
slang  phrases  to  such  an  extent  that  I  fear  you  will  be  very 
rough  by  the  time  you  go  home  to  marry  Belle." 

"  Never  mind  about  my  getting  married,  Nellie,"  said  Walter, 
a  little  sarcastically.  "What  were  the  rest  of  to-day's  revela 
tions?  It  cannot  be  possible  that  was  allvMrs.  Williams  had  to 
tell." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "  You  know  the  Captain  has  not  spoken 
to  his  son  Ben  for  nearly  two  years.  Of  course,  I  told  her  I 
knew  nothing  about  it.  Then  she  informed  me  Ben  was  such  a 
wild,  dissipated  fellow,  that  his  father  was  obliged  to  ignore 
his  existence  entirely,  and  never  even  permit  him  to  come 
home.  The  poor  old  gentleman's  heart  is  almost  broken  with 
grief,  through  that  misguided  son.  He  asked  the  members  of 
the  church,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  to  pray  for  him,  last  prayer- 
meeting." 

"  Did  she  not  say  it  was  because  the  old  Captain  was  so  busy 
making  love  to  that  French  girl  from  Limerick,  who  is  keeping 
house  for  him,  that  his  son  was  in  the  way,  and  he  shipped  him? 
Was  not  that  the  story,  Nell  ?  "  asked  Walter. 

"No,  indeed.  I  was  trying  to  tell  you  what  she  did  say, 
but  you  shock  me  by  insinuating  such  things  of  the  Captain. 
He  is  the  most  pious  and  best  old  gentleman  I  have  met  in 
this  country.  He  makes  beautiful  prayers,  and  was  the  means 
of  getting  our  church  built." 

"  Did  he  have  the  contract  to  build  it?  if  so,  that  accounts 
for  his  piety." 

"  Oh,  Walter,  you  are  getting  so  wicked.  You  make  sport 
of  everything  that  is  pious,  lately." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  3! 

"  No,  Nellie  ;  you  misunderstand  me.  For  sincerely  good 
and  pious  people,  I  have  great  respect,  but  not  for  the  sort  to 
which  your  friend  the  Captain  belongs." 

"  I  wish  you  knew  him  as  he  really  is.  I  fear  you  are  prej 
udiced." 

George  had  gone  into  the  house,  as  it  grew  dark,  and  was 
rocking  the  two  children,  one  on  each  knee,  telling  them  a 
fairy  tale.  The  lamps  had  not  yet  been  lighted,  and  from  a 
side  window  Captain  Wetherell's  house  was  distinctly  to  be 
seen,  only  a  short  distance  off.  George  called  Walter  and 
Nellie  to  come  in  and  witness  some  private  theatricals,  and 
added  :  "  The  play  is  a  romance  of  real  life." 

They  immediately  obeyed  the  summons,  wondering  what 
George  could  possibly  mean. 

"  Look  out  there,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  open  window. 

"Ah,  Nell,"  laughed  Walter,  "there  is  your  pious  old  saint 
at  his  devotions.  To  what  form  of  religion  does  that  style  of 
worship  belong  ?  ' ' 

Nellie  made  no  reply,  but  looked  in  blank  amazement. 
There  sat  her  ideal  of  goodness  and  piety  with  his  housemaid 
on  his  knee,  and  they  were  sportirig  like  young  lovers.  He 
would  kiss  her  freckled  face,  with  the  nez  retrousse,  and  she 
would  pull  his  whiskers  in  return.  A  very  tender  embrace, 
and  the  Captain  left  his  accommodating  housemaid,  took  up 
his  gold-headed  cane,  and  went  out  into  the  street  as  serene 
and  saintly  as  ever. 

' '  Homer  says : 

'  So  lovers  to  their  fair  one,  fondly  blind, 
E'en  on  their  ugliness  with  transport  gaze,'  " 

quoted  Walter,  jocosely,  and  turning  to  Nellie,  asked : 

"What  of  your  pious  friend  now,  Nell?  I  suppose  he  is  on 
his  way  to  prayer-meeting,  is  he  not?" 


32  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  admit  it,  but  this  is  the  evening  for  prayer- 
meeting.  ' ' 

"He  is  one  of  your  pillars,  is  he  not? "  asked  George. 

"Yes,"  said  Nellie;  "but  I  am  so  shocked.  I  wish  I  had 
not  witnessed  the  little  drama,  as  you  called  that  disgusting 
scene  a  few  moments  ago." 

"Oh,  that  was  only  a  domestic  affinity,"  laughed  George. 
"  There  are  worse  things  in  the  world." 

"Do  you  think  Mrs.  Williams  was  right,  when  she  said  the 
son  was  so  bad  the  father  could  not  get  along  with  him ;  or 
was  I  right  when  I  said  he  interfered  with  the  old  reprobate's 
love-making  with  his  servant  ?  ' '  asked  Walter. 

"Let  us  admit  that  each  might  have  faults,"  said  Nellie,  in 
her  conciliatory  way.  "Mrs.  Williams  told  me  the  Captain 
wrote  his  son  a  note,  a  few  days  ago,  asking  him  to  come  home, 
and  he  would  receive  him  with  open  arms,  and  forgive  him  all 
the  past.  The  son  replied,  he  had  committed  no  offence,  and 
consequently  required  no  forgiveness ;  but  if  his  father  would 
endeavor  to  be  honorable  and  upright  in  future,  he  would  for 
give  him  the  past.  I  thought  that  a  very  impudent  message 
from  a  son  to  a  father. ' ' 

"I  do  not  think  he  meant  it  as  insolence,"  said  Walter, 
earnestly.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  Nellie,  I  cannot  cultivate 
any  interest  in  the  country  gossip.  The  Captain  must  have 
unburdened  his  heart  to  Mrs.  Williams,  or  she  would  not  have 
been  so  familiar  with  his  grievances ;  and  I  assure  you,  when 
a  person  can  give  his  troubles  to  the  village  to  take  care  of, 
they  have  ceased  to  oppress  the  original  owner.  True  sorrow 
never  goes  abroad,  but  bides  at  home.  As  for  young  Wetherell, 
I  have  known  him  for  three  years,  and  never  heard  a  word 
against  him.  He  and  his  father  disagree  because  he  knows  the 
old  gentleman's  real  character,  and  is  not  sparing  in  his  criti- 


FREE    PRISONERS.  33 

cism  of  his  conduct.  As  I  said  before,  the  old  Captain  will 
not  be  interfered  with,  and  yet  he  wants  to  make  himself  out 
a  saint.  So  he  turns  his  son  away  from  home,  goes  about 
telling  all  the  world  how  bad  he  is,  puts  on  a  long  face  of  in 
jured  innocence,  and  asks  the  pious  brethren  to  pray  for  his 
misguided  son.  The  pious  sympathize  deeply  with  the  grief- 
stricken  parent,  and  pray  for  the  lost  son,  while  the  father  hugs 
the  housemaid.  Young  Wetherell  is  an  imp  of  Satan,  and  yet 
the  son  of  one  of  God's  chosen  disciples.  How  can  you  solve 
that  enigma  ? ' ' 

"Do  not  try,  Nellie.     It  is  a  miracle,"  interposed  George. 

"You  must  not  become  sacrilegious,  too,  George,"  said 
Nellie,  earnestly;  and  turning  to  Walter,  "what  does  young 
Wetherell  do  for  a  living?  " 

"  He  and  two  other  young  men  own  a  mine  a  few  miles 
from  here.  He  is  ambitious  and  industrious,  and  doing  well,  I 
believe.  It  is-  a  wonder  to  me  he  is  even  honest,  with  such  a 
father. ' ' 

"I  am  sorry  we  have  such  neighbors,"  said  Nellie;  "but 
Mrs.  Williams  told  me  that  Linda,  the  daughter,  is  an  unusually 
fine  girl.  Her  sister  attended  school  with  her  a  long  time  in 
New  York  State,  and  considers  her  in  every  way  very  superior, 
besides  being  beautiful." 

"  There  will  be  a  chance  for  you,  Walter,"  suggested  George. 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  replied  Walter,  scornfully.  "That 
stock  will  never  do  for  me.  Why,  the  mother  is  a  regular  ter 
magant,  and  with  such  parentage,  what  may  not  the  daughter 
be?" 

"Ah,  yes,  Walter;  but  the  ways  of  the  heart,  like  the  work 
ings  of  Providence,  are  inscrutable,"  added  Nellie. 

C 


34  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   DISCARDED   LOVER. 
"  She  tells  thee  where  to  love  and  where  to  hate." — Juvenal. 

IT  was  a  charming  spring  morning  when  the  "Ocean  Queen" 
sailed  out  of  New  York  harbor,  crowded  with  passengers  for 
California,  among  whom  were  Mrs.  Captain  Wetherell  and 
her  daughter,  Linda.  The  mother  was  a  cold,  stately  woman, 
apparently  about  forty  years  of  age,  with  jetty  black  hair  and 
eyes,  and  a  firm,  hard  mouth. 

The  daughter  had  brown  hair  and  large  hazel  eyes,  which 
sometimes  looked  black,  but  they  were  soft  and  true.  Her 
complexion  was  fresh  and  rosy,  her  mouth  pretty  and  expres 
sive,  unlike  the  mother's,  for  it  lacked  the  iron  bars  that  seemed 
to  shut  out  all  human  sympathy  from  her  soul.  There  was  a 
girlish  elegance  and  grace  about  everything  she  did  that  made 
her  perfectly  charming,  and  withal  such  a  forgetfulness  of  self, 
as  she  waited  upon  her  mother,  bathed  her  sick  neighbor's 
aching  head,  and  amused  the  little  girls  whose  mothers  were 
sea-sick,  that,  unconsciously,  she  made  herself  generally  useful 
and  universally  admired  and  beloved. 

Everything  was  wonderful  to  her,  because  it  was  new.  She 
was  looking  at  life  with  the  first  glow  of  pleasure,  and  saw 
only  the  sunshine,  and  did  not  dream  that  storms  mig'ht  be 
gathering  in  the  distance  that  would  break  over  her  young 
head. 

When  they  arrived  at  Aspinwall,  she  was  greatly  amused  by 
the  natives,  who,  like  swarms  of  bees,  went  buzzing  about  quite 
as  primitive  in  dress  as  Adam  and  Eve  when  they  wore  but 


FREE    PRISONERS.  35 

fig-leaves.  The  little  children  running  around  looked  like 
diminutive  bronze  statues,  in  their  blessed  ignorance  neither 
desiring  nor  needing  more  to  clothe  them  than  the  sunburnt 
skin  their  great  Creator  gave  them. 

As  they  crossed  the  beautiful  Isthmus  of  Panama,  where 
Nature  runs  riot  in  her  exuberance  of  spirit ;  where  the  luxuriant 
vegetation  weaves  into  the  wilderness  a  perfect  bower  of  wild 
beauty  —  with  the  stately  palms,  cocoanuts,  bananas,  tree-ferns, 
and  majestic  rubber  trees  decorated  with  orchids  and  other 
parasites,  with  their  drooping  stems  knotted  here  and  there 
with  air  roots,  the  bush  ropes  hanging  from  them  in  graceful 
festoons,  intermingled  with  running  plants,  decorated  with 
variegated  green  leaves,  and  serjania  and  bignonia  voluptuously 
interlaced  and  entangled  —  she  almost  imagined,  while  gazing 
into,  those  fantastic  bowers,  that  she  was  looking  into  an  en 
chanted  abode  of  fairies,  so  light  and  airy  was  the  picture.  But 
when  she  thought  of  the  creeping  reptiles,  venomous  insects, 
and  wild  beasts  that  had  their  abode  there,  the  fairy  scene 
became  a  labyrinth  so  dense  and  heavy,  that  the  very  atmos 
phere  seemed  infected,  and  she  longed  to  be  gliding  over  the 
Pacific,  whose  waters  were  so  calm  that  it  seemed  useless  for  the 
steamer  to  be  puffing  and  blowing  and  making  such  hard  work 
of  skimming  the  glassy  surface. 

Among  the  passengers  was  a  Mr.  Warren,  an  old  acquaint 
ance  of  Mrs.  Wetherell,  a  widower,  who  had  an  adopted  daughter, 
about  Linda's  age,  at  school  in  Boston,  of  whom  he  frequently 
talked  to  Linda,  telling  her  how  much  she  reminded  him  of 
his  own  open-hearted  girl  Alice. 

Mrs.  Wetherell  was  pleased  to  have  his  attentions  during  the 
monotonous  voyage,  and  Linda  accepted  them  as  kindness  from 
an  elderly  gentleman.  Before  the  voyage  was  ended  his  man 
ner  changed,  and  instead  of  fatherly  attentions  they  became 


36  FREE    PRISONERS. 

unmistakably  the  smiles,  simperings,  and  contortions  of  an  old 
fool  trying  to  play  the  youthful  lover. 

Linda  did  not  notice  his  altered  manner  —  in  fact,  she  thought 
little  of  Mr.  Warren  at  best  —  only  it  was  pleasant  to  have  a  gen 
tleman  to  accompany  her  upon  deck  to  admire  the  glorious 
sunsets  and  see  the  moon  rise,  and  in  the  morning  to  count 
the  nautilus,  as  they  floated  by  with  their  mimic  sails,  and 
watch  the  schools  of  porpoise  as  they  sported  and  tossed  in  the 
fathomless  deep. 

Steadily  the  ship  went  on ;  land  was  in  sight ;  on  the  mor 
row  they  would  sail  through  the  Golden  Gate  and  enter  the 
picturesque  bay  of  San  Francisco.  It  was  moonlight,  and  Linda 
wished  to  pass  the  last  evening  of  her  sea  voyage  on  deck. 
Mrs.  Wetherell  complained  of  indisposition,  and  requested  Mr. 
Warren  to  accompany  her. 

They  sat  some  time  in  silence  watching  the  moonshine  play 
ing  upon  the  phosphorescent  waves.  Linda  was  the  first  to 
break  the  stillness. 

"Mr.  Warren,  you  promised  long  ago  to  tell  me  the  history 
of  your  adopted  daughter,  which  you  said  was  very  strange.  As 
this  is  our  last  evening  together,  may  I  claim  the  fulfilment  of 
your  promise  ?  ' ' 

"With  pleasure,  Miss  Linda.  Your  slightest  wish  is  a  com 
mand;  but  it  is  long  since  I  have  even  thought  of  it,  and  the 
whole  event  was  so  completely  enveloped  in  mystery,  that  it  may 
prove  less  interesting  than  you  expect.  However,  your  wo 
manly  curiosity  shall  be  gratified. 

"  About  sixteen  years  ago,  we  lived  in  New  Orleans.  My  wife 
was  a  very  domestic  woman,  devoutly  fond  of  her  home  and 
family.  We  had  three  darling  bright  children  —  two  boys  and 
one  girl.  That  summer  the  scarlet  fever  raged  like  a  fiend 
of  fury  among  the  little  folks.  The  brightest  and  loveliest 


FREE    PRISONERS.  37 

dropped  off  by  dozens.  Ours  were  all  swept  away  within  a  week. 
My  wife,  never  very  robust,  was  so  overcome  by  the  blow  that  she 
lay  for  weeks  hovering  between  life  and  death.  Near  us  lived 
the  widow  of  a  clergyman  and  her  daughter,  who  had  two 
children.  These  children  were  among  the  few  who  had  the 
fever  and  recovered.  Hearing  of  our  misfortunes  and  my 
wife's  illness,  the  young  mother  left  her  little  ones  with  her 
mother,  and  spent  days  by  my  wife's  bedside.  She  became 
devotedly  attached  to  her,  and  the  good  young  woman  was  ever 
ready  to  minister  to  her  comforts.  One  night,  she  went  home 
quite  late  from  our  house,  and  retired  as  usual,  with  her  chil 
dren  in  their  crib  by  her  side.  The  next  morning,  when  she 
awoke,  she  found  them  changed.  They  were  smaller,  and  did 
not  know  her.  She,  poor  soul,  thought  her  eyesight  and  reason 
were  leaving  her,  and  called  to  her  mother,  who  was  equally  at 
a  loss;  for  without  doubt  the  young  mother's  children  were 
gone  and  two  strange  ones  left  in  their  place. 

"The  bereaved  mother  was  almost  crazed,  and  in  fact  the 
entire  neighborhood  was  greatly  excited  over  the  event,  for  it 
was  so  singular,  and  apparently  uncalled  for,  that  no  one  could 
comprehend  it.  When  my  wife  asked  for  her  friend,  I  told  her 
of  her  affliction,  hoping  that  others'  sorrows  might  draw  her 
from  her  own.  It  acted  like  a  charm.  She  forgot  herself 
entirely  in  the  endeavor  to  console  her  friend. 

"The  boy's  resemblance  to  the  lost  one  was  so  remarkable, 
the  mother  clung  to  him  madly ;  but  she  positively  refused  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  the  girl ;  so  my  wife  took  her.  That 
is  all  I  know  of  my  lovely,  nameless,  adopted  daughter." 

"  How  mysterious  !  "  said  Linda,  musingly.  "  Was  nothing 
done  to  discover  the  truth?" 

"  Yes,  everything  that  was  in  their  power ;  and  I  entered  into 
the  search  with  all  my  heart,  but  not  the  slightest  clue  could 
4 


38  FREE    PRISONERS. 

ever  be  found.  We  moved  North  soon  after,  and  I  have  never 
heard  of  them  since". ' ' 

"  How  exceedingly  strange  and  sad  it  must  be,  to  live  in  this 
world  and  not  know  one's  own  parents,"  and  Linda  sat  silently 
thinking  a  long  time,  then,  in  her  girlish  way,  exclaimed  : 

"  How  delightful  to  think  we  will  bd  in  San  Francisco  to 
morrow.  I  am  so  glad  ! ' ' 

"And  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Warren,  languidly. 

"  Sorry?  How  can  you  be  sorry  ?  I  have  enjoyed  our  voy 
age  exceedingly,  but  am  heartily  glad  we  are  so  near  our 
destination." 

"There  is  something  strangely  fascinating  to  me  about  the 
tropical  regions,"  continued  Mr.  Warren,  "where  the  posts 
put  into  the  ground  for  fences  send  forth  young  branches  and 
form  beautiful  hedges.  There  Nature  is  so  lavish  with  her 
products,  that  man  is  exempt  from  the  command,  '  By  the  sweat 
of  thy  brow  shalt  thou  earn  thy  bread.'  She  furnishes  her 
people  with  fruits  according  to  the  seasons,  and  a  few  posts, 
with  palm  leaves  for  roofs,  suffice  for  houses  for  the  poorer  ones. 
No  clothes  are  required  in  childhood,  and  few  when  they  are 
grown.  Speculative  controversies  are  useless,  as  existence  is  a 
certainty  and  death  a  settled  fact ;  but,  of  course,  always  a 
great  ways  off,  in  the  impenetrable  mists  of  futurity." 

"It  is  a  wise  dispensation,  for  it  surely  would  not  be  very 
gratifying  to  those  poor  natives  to,  contemplate  the  immediate 
approach  of  death,  when  they  know  their  remains  will  be 
deposited  in  one  of  the  double  rows  of  vaults  surrounding  the 
open  square  of  their  burying-ground,  of  two  or  three  acres, 
and  finally  burned  as  rubbish.  You  should  have  gone  with  us 
there,  Mr.  Warren.  It  is  horribly  interesting.  When  all  the 
vaults  are  full,  the  thin  layer  of  mortar  is  broken  open  that 
shuts  the  oldest  reposer  in  his  narrow  cell,  and  coffin  and  con- 


FREE    PRISONERS.  39 

tents  are  hurled  into  one  of  the  small  open  squares  left  in  each 
corner  for  that  purpose.  When  these  are  full,  the  whole  mass 
is  removed  and  burned.  In  some  places  the  mortar  covering 
was  broken,  and  we  could  see  the  decomposing  corpse  in  the 
open  coffin.  It  was  not  such  a  disgusting  sight  as  one  might 
imagine,  for  decomposition  there  is  generally  a  more  drying 
process,  that  leaves  the  corpse  as  inoffensive  to  sense  and  sight 
as  an  Egyptian  mummy.  Some  are  honored  above  the  rest,  by 
having  their  skulls  placed  upon  the  top  of  the  vaults,  to  grin 
dismally  down  upon  those  who  enter  there,  in  mockery  of  their 
bright  dreams  of  life.  There  is  nothing  in  the  centre  of  this 
square  but  rank  weeds,  so  suggestive  of  reptiles  it  makes  me 
shudder  to  think  of  it.  I  am  sure  Longfellow  would  never 
have  called  that  loathsome  place,  with  its  debris  of  human 
bones  and  broken  coffins,  God's-acre." 

"  That  is  rather  tob  sacred  a  title  for  such  a  mouldering  place 
as  you  have  described,"  answered  Mr.  Warren;  "but  I  think 
you  regard  it  with  too  much  feeling.  You  forget  the  church 
dignitaries  and  high  officials  are  buried  with  great  honors  in 
the  churches,  and  only  the  common  people  are  interred  in  that 
potter's  field." 

"  True,  Mr.  Warren.  But  the  common  people  are  the  masses ; 
very  few  receive  church  honors." 

'•'Still,"  persisted  Mr.  Warren,  "for  a  semi-barbarous  race, 
I  do  not  find  that  burial  system  so  disgusting.  In  the  world- 
famed  '  Pere-la-Chaise  '  of  Paris,  in  the  potter's  field,  there  is  a 
deep  trench  ever  open,  where  daily  the  coffins  are  packed  in, 
with  only  a  thin  layer  of  earth  between,  and  every  five  years 
these  trenches  are  dug  over  for  new  occupants,  and  the  old  ones 
are  exhumed  and  burned." 

"Thank  Heaven,"  exclaimed  Linda,  "in  the  free  country 
where  we  are  going,  there  is  ample  room  for  the  dead  to  repose 


4O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

until  called  by  the  great  Voice  on  high.  With  all  the  attrac 
tions  of  Panama  and  Acapulco,  with  their  beautiful  and  varied 
foliage,  I  am  glad  they  are  so  far  behind  us,  and  to-morrow  I 
will  meet  my  dear  father  and  brother  Ben  once  more.  I  cannot 
understand  why  you  are  not  glad  our  journey  is  so  near  ended." 

"Because  I  will  have  to  leave  you,  Linda,"  sighed  the 
enamored  old  widower. 

"  Oh,  is  that  the  only  reason?  "  laughed  Linda. 

"  Surely,  that  is  sufficient  cause,"  and  Mr.  Warren's  manner 
became  very  earnest.  "  Linda,  you  are  as  lovely  in  mind  and 
disposition  as  you  are  in  form  and  face.  I  love  you;  forgive 
me  for  telling  you  so ;  but  I  cannot  control  the  passion  that 
fills  my  heart  and  soul,  and  occupies  every  corner  of  my  brain. 
I  may  seem  too  old  to  woo  one  so  young  and  fair  as  you,"  for 
he  noticed  a  strange  expression  about  Linda's  mouth  that 
strongly  indicated  disgust.  "I  may  seem  rather  old,"  he 
continued,  "but  I  can  offer  you  an  honest,  faithful  heart,  and 
it  would  grieve  me  to  have  a  mind  so  pure  and  bright  and 
mature  as  yours  thrown  away  on  some  unappreciative  person. 
I  am  wealthy  and  can  provide  for  you  lavishly.  In  a  few  years 
my  adopted  daughter  will  be  with  us,  and  you  will  find  her  a 
charming  companion.  Every  wish  of  your  heart  shall  be  grati 
fied,  if  possible,  before  your  sweet  lips  have  time  to  give  utter 
ance  to  them.  Although  you  regard  me  now  in  the  light  of  a 
friend  and  protector,  or,  as  you  jokingly  said  last  night,  of  a 
father,  I  feel  sure  the  time  will  speedily  come  when,  from  my 
untiring  efforts  to  please,  you  will  learn  to  love  me.  Linda, 
darling,  will  you  be  the  wife  of  one  who  loves  you  better  than 
life?" 

He  attempted  to  take  her  hand,  but  Linda  drew  back. 

"Mr.  Warren,  you  shock  me  !  "  and  her  pale  face  showed 
she  was  either  shocked  or  angry.  "  I  have  one  father,  sir, 


FREE    PRISONERS.  4! 

and  until  he  dies  do  not  wish  to  engage  another.  I  bid  you 
good-night,  sir." 

Before  Mr.  Warren  had  time  to  appreciate  fully  what  had 
transpired,  his  beautiful  Linda  was  safely  down  stairs  in  the 
state-room  with  her  mother. 

"  Mother,  what  do  you  think?  That  old  imbecile,  Mr.  War 
ren,  asked  me  to  marry  him,"  burst  forth  Linda,  as  she  rushed 
into  her  mother's  state-room  quite  out  of  breath. 

"Well,"  asked  the  mother,  coolly,  "what  was  your  answer?" 

"  My  answer  !  "  Linda  was  as  much  surprised  at  her  mother's 
manner  and  tone  of  voice  as  she  had  been  at  Mr.  Warren's. 
"I  told  him  I  had  one  father,  and  until  he  died  did  not  wish 
to  engage  another,"  answered  the  excited  girl. 

"Linda!"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell,  sharply,  "  I  am  sorry  you 
spoke  in  that  manner  to  such  an  estimable  gentleman  as  Mr. 
Warren.  I  was  in  hopes  you  would  be  flattered  by  such  an 
opportunity,  and  accept  his  offer." 

Linda  sat  down  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  as  Mrs. 
Wetherell  continued : 

"  Mr.  Warren  is  wealthy,  and,  as  you  have  been  frequently 
told,  your  father  is  only  in  moderate  circumstances.  You  are  a 
handsome  and  accomplished  girl,  and  surely  do  not  intend  to 
throw  yourself  away  on  some  poor,  good-for-nothing  fellow,  for 
the  fancy  of  love.  Girls  at  your  age  are  apt  to  dream  of  love 
and  lovers,  but  when  you  get  older,  you  will  find  them  only  in 
name  and  in  novels.  A  woman  does  well  who  marries  a  man 
of  position,  and  has  power  to  command.  Money  gives  that 
power,  and  nothing  else  can.  Mr.  Warren  may  be  a  little  too 
far  advanced  in  years  to  suit  your  present  fancy,  but  I  gave  his 
proposition  my  most  hearty  approval.  When  he  conversed 
with  me  on  the  subject,  I  bade  him  make  his  own  proposals  to 
you,  thinking,  with  your  good  sense  in  other  matters,  you  would 
4* 


42  FREE    PRISONERS. 

feel  that  our  family  affairs  required  you  to  marry  one  who  could 
well  support  you.  I  will  see  Mr.  Warren,  and  bid  him  be 
patient  until  you  have  had  time  to  reflect.  You  were  taken  too 
much  by  surprise  ;  but  he  need  not  be  in  the  least  discouraged, 
for  I  intend  you  shall  marry  him.  Do  you  hear,  wilful  girl  ? 
You  are  to  marry  Mr.  Warren.  I  have  not  raised  you,  and 
educated  you,  to  be  thus  opposed  by  your  girlish  whims.  You 
have  no  right  to  any  opinion  on  the  subject,  and  I  grant  you 
none." 

Linda  raised  her  proud  head,  and  her  flashing  eyes,  like 
burning  stars  in  that  dimly-lighted  room,  proved  that  the 
daughter  could  be  as  firm  as  the  stately  woman,  her  mother. 
Coldly,  but  respectfully,  she  answered : 

"  For  what  you  have  done,  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart, 
and  through  my  whole  life  hope  to  prove  my  gratitude.  I  have 
always  endeavored  to  be  an  obedient  daughter,  and  it  is  my 
most  earnest  wish  to  continue  so ;  but  I  know  of  no  law  of  God 
or  man  that  compels  me  to  yield  all  my  hopes  of  happiness,  in 
fact,  sacrifice  my  whole  life,  to  a  heartless  requirement  of  a 
selfish  mother,  to  prove  me  a  faithful  child." 

"How  dare  you  speak  thus  to  me?"  shrieked  the  exasper 
ated  woman.  "  Am  I  not  your  mother?  Do  you  not  owe  your 
life  to  me  ?  Have  I,  then,  not  a  right  to  command  it  ?  " 

"  Have  you  a  right  to  kill  me?  "  asked  Linda,  calmly. 

"  No,  silly  child;  neither  have  I  the  desire,"  answered  Mrs. 
Wetherell,  in  a  more  subdued  tone. 

"Tell  me,  mother,  do  you  think  the  only  death  is  when  the 
heart-throbs  cease  ?  No  !  There  are  worse  deaths,  a  thousand 
times  worse  —  living  deaths.  I  would  rather  you  would  pierce 
my  heart,  and  let  my  life-blood  ebb  away,  than  compel  me  to 
marry  that  old  simpering  fool,  for  in  either  case  you  would  be 
guilty  of  murder.  I  will  never  change.  I  despise  him ;  he  is 


FREE    PRISONERS.  43 

abhorrent  to  me.     I  am  seventeen,  he  is  forty-six.    It  is  a  pity 
grandfather  is  dead,  for  he  was  rich." 

"Cease  your  insolent  mockery,  girl,"  cried  the  angry 
mother,  taking  her  by  the  shoulder  and  turning  her  pale  face 
to  the  light.  The  cold,  selfish  woman  was  livid  with  rage,  and 
her  eyes  were  as  black  as  the  eyes  of  a  demon  of  darkness,  as 
she  said,  fiercely:  "I  will  go  and  find  Mr.  Warren,  and  tell 
him  you  will  marry  him  when  he  wishes  it,  that  you  have  so 
promised  me.  If  you  deny  my  words  or  oppose  me  further,  I 
will  curse  the  hour  that  gave  you  birth,  and  every  hour  of  your 
life.  I  will  crush  you  to  the  very  earth  until  you  will  be  glad 
to  comply  with  my  command.  You  shall  feel  the  depth  of  my 
hatred.  You  do  not  know  me,  girl.  We  have  lived  pleasantly 
thus  far,  because  we  have  seldom  been  together,  and  when  we 
were,  nothing  transpired  to  disturb  our  peace.  Now,  when  I 
command,  and  you  disobey,  you  shall  have  a  glimpse  under 
neath  my  cold  exterior.  You  shall  be  introduced  to  your 
mother.  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you  my  history  at  your  age,  and 
since  then  the  pages  are  no  fairer." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

REVEALING   THE    GRAVE    OF    MURDERED   LOVE. 

I  WAS  a  child,  as  you  know,  but   ten  years  old  when  my 
mother   died.     She   was  a  gentle,  amiable   creature.     My 
father  followed  her  two  years  later.     He  was  a  severe,  stern, 
heartless  man.     It  was  said  his  neglect  and  indifference  killed 
my  mother. 

"After  the  death  of  my  father,  I  was  sent  to  live  with  a 


44  FREE    PRISONERS. 

cousin  of  my  mother's,  who  had  an  only  son,  Henry.  He  and 
I  grew  up  like  brother  and  sister.  We  went  to  the  same  school, 
played  together,  in  short,  were  seldom  apart. 

"  I  loved  my  gentle,  new  mother  and  merry  brother.  I  was 
free  and  light-hearted,  knowing  nothing  of  the  ills  of  life.  My 
mother,  as  I  always  called  Mrs.  Graham,  was  a  widow  in 
moderate  circumstances.  She  never  had  a  daughter,  and  I 
believe  loved  me  as  deeply  as  if  I  had  been  her  own.  When  I 
was  sixteen,  Henry  was  twenty,  and  we  were  engaged  to  be 
married. 

"  About  a  year  after  our  engagement,  an  army  officer  in  the 
place  came  to  see  me  frequently,  and  paid  me  quite  marked  at 
tention.  I  encouraged  him  for  amusement,  not  that  there  was 
one  thought  in  my  heart  false  to  my  plighted  lover.  One  day 
Henry  came  home  unexpectedly,  and  found  us  sitting  "side  by 
side  in  the  arbor,  reading  from  one  book.  He  knew  his  mother 
was  absent,  and  all  the  jealous  anger  he  had  previously  so  well 
concealed  burst  forth.  He  ordered  Captain  McDonald  to  leave 
at  once,  and  bade  me  retire  to  the  house.  I  asked  the  Captain 
to  remain,  and  quietly  told  Henry,  although  I  was  burning  with 
rage,  his  company  could  better  be  dispensed  with ;  I  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  being  ordered  by  any  one,  and  he  could  consider 
his  right,  if  he  ever  had  any,  forfeited.  Still,  I  went  into  the 
house,  and  left  the  young  men  together.  All  I  ever  knew  of 
what  passed  between  them  was  from  a  note  I  found  under  my 
door  the  next  morning,  in  which  Henry  told  me  he  had  chal 
lenged  Captain  McDonald,  and  expected  to  be  killed.  Life  had 
become  a  burden  to  him  since  I  ceased  to  love  him  and  re 
nounced  our  engagement.  At  seven  he  said  he  would  be  a 
corpse,  and  bade  me  be  kind  to  his  mother.  I  flew  out  of  the 
house  like  one  mad.  At  seven  he  said.  It  still  lacked  a  few 
minutes  of  that  time.  I  might  yet  save  him ;  but  where  were 


FREE    PRISONERS.  45 

they  to  be  found,  those  murderers  ?  I  started  to  the  hillside, 
but  turned'  back.  I  thought  of  the  woods,  but  they  were  two 
miles  away.  I  met  a  small  boy,  and  asked  him,  excitedly, 
1  Have  you  seen  Henry  Graham  this  morning? '  'Yes,  ma'am,' 
he  answered,  '  I  saw  him  going  down  toward  the  creek,  a  little 
while  ago,  with  a  gentleman.' 

' '  Toward  the  creek !  I  never  thought  to  ask  what  part  of 
the  creek,  but  rushed  on.  The  wind  and  my  running  disar 
ranged  my  hair.  My  dress  caught  in  the  bushes,  and  left  great 
pieces  behind,  and  yet  I  sped  on.  Just  as  I  was  emerging  from 
a  thicket  into  open  space,  I  heard  the  report  of  a  pistol.  I  al 
most  fell,  for  it  seemed  to  strike  my  heart.  Not  seemed  —  it 
did !  and  left  it  paralyzed. 

"  I  saw  Henry  stagger,  and  sprang  forward  to  catch  him  in 
my  arms.  'Great  God!  I  am  too  late/  I  screamed.  'Yes,' 
said  Henry,  'I  am  killed.'  'And  by  me,'  I  cried.  'No, 
Laura,  not  by  you,'  he  answered,  in  his  kind,  old  way.  On 
my  knees,  with  his  dear  head  pillowed  on  my  breast,  I  begged 
in  rny  agony  for  Heaven's  sake  to  be  forgiven. 

"  'Dearest,  I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  I  only  loved  you  too 
selfishly,  too  well.'  As  he  spoke,  every  instant  with  more 
difficulty,  he  added :  '  I  have  but  a  moment  longer,  darling. 
Tell  the  news  gently  to  mother.  I  fear  it  will  break  her  heart. 
Be  a  good  daughter  to  her,  and  try  to  be  happy.  God 
be  merciful  —  to  —  me  —  good-by. '  His  head  fell  back,  his 
hands  released  their  hold  on  mine.  He  was  dead !  Did  you 
hear  me,  girl?  I  said  he  was  dead  !  dead  !  " 

Mrs.  Wetherell  fell  back  in  her  chair,  trembling  and  sobbing 
violently.  Linda  hastened  to  her  side  to  comfort  her ;  but  the 
paroxysm  was  past,  and  she  was  herself  again,  only  a  little  paler. 
She  pushed  Linda  away,  saying  harshly : 

"Sit  down;  that  is  only  half  the  story.     There  I  sat,  with 


46  FREE    PRISONERS. 

my  murdered  lover,  until  aroused  by  his  friend,  who  had  stood 
by  and  witnessed  the  deed.  I  was  to  break  the  news  gently  to 
his  mother,  so  he  told  me ;  and  I  went  home  to  do  his  bidding. 

"Mother  was  arranging  his  room  and  singing,  or  rather  chant 
ing,  an  old  hymn.  'What  ails  you,  child?'  she  asked,  coming 
toward  me.  I  must  have  looked  startling,  with  my  dishevelled 
hair  and  torn  dress  all  stained  with  blood  —  my  livid  face  and 
staring  eyes,  for  I  seemed  to  see  death  all  around  me.  '  What 
can  be  the  matter,  child?'  repeated  mother.  I  think  I  lost 
my  senses  for  the  moment,  or  the  devil  took  possession  of  me, 
for  I  screamed  out,  'I  have  killed  your  son.  my  affianced 
husband ! ' 

"  The  grief-stricken  mother  fell  to  the  floor.  The  fall  aroused 
me.  I  stooped  to  pick  her  up,  but  she  was  senseless.  I  heard 
footsteps ;  I  knew  they  were  bringing  the  lifeless  form  of  my 
darling.  I  shed  not  one  tear,  only  directed  them  to  the  room 
which  his  mother  had  just  arranged  so  carefully  for  his  recep 
tion.  I  sent  for  a  physician,  and  had  mother  well  cared  for ; 
but  she  lay  in  a  perfect  stupor  all  that  day  and  the  next.  Then 
she  gradually  awakened  to  consciousness,  but  she  was  paralyzed. 

"  Friends  were  very  kind,  and  did  all  they  possibly  could  ;  but 
what  I  endured  those  days  and  nights  no  human  being  could 
ever  imagine.  I  never  closed  my  eyes  in  sleep  until  after  the 
funeral.  I  wandered  to  the  chamber  of  death,  and  there  tried 
to  think,  to  feel  grief,  but  it  was  useless.  I  was  paralyzed,  too, 
but  not  like  mother ;  my  heart  was  dead.  I  went  to  mother, 
and  when  she  would  turn  her  eyes  upon  me,  —  those  tender, 
loving  eyes,  —  I  felt  as  if  they  were  two  coals  of  livid  fire  upon 
my  heart  and  brain  ;  that  was  all  I  could  feel.  I  wanted  to  die, 
but  did  not  know  how.  If  I  could  only  have  become  uncon 
scious,  and  awakened  to  new  sensibilities.  If  I  had  been  very 
ill,  and  gradually  recovered,  I  might  have  been  something  like 


FREE    PRISONERS.  47 

my  old  self.  Being  full  of  health,  the  blow  that  stunned  me  left 
me  semi-conscious.  There  was  nothing  to  soften  me,  not  a 
human  being  to  whom  I  could  unburden  my  heart  and  expect 
sympathy  in  return,  and  every  sensibility  in  my  nature  seemed 
gradually,  but  surely,  to  be  consumed.  I  was  a  murderess  that 
the  law  could  not  reach,  and  my  life  a  wreck. 

"  One  short  month  passed,  and  mother  died,  too,  There  in 
the  still  old  churchyard  they  lay,  the  two  precious  ones  I  had 
loved  so  well,  killed  by  my  rash  conduct.  I  was  alone  in  the 
world,  without  a  friend  or  relation.  Seventeen  years  old  — 
beautiful  and  accomplished,  and  the  author  of  two  murders. 
Girl!  Do  you  hear?  I  had  committed  two  murders  at  your 
age!" 

Again  the  strange  woman  gasped  as  if  for  breath,  and  fell 
back  on  her  chair  exhausted. 

Linda  arose  to  aid  her,  but  was  again  repulsed  by  the  wave 
of  her  hand.  The  poor  child,  not  less  excited  than  the  mother, 
sat  staring  vacantly  at  the  pallid  face  before  her. 

In  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  Wetherell  continued :  "I  had  a 
monument  erected  over  the  two  graves.  I  remained  there  in 
that  graveyard  every  day,  until  I  felt  sure  I  had  buried  every 
feeling  of  human  sympathy  and  human  love  in  those  two  graves. 
My  heart  was  dead.  I  buried  it  there  with  those  I  loved  — 
trampled  upon  the  clay,  and  covered  it  with  sward,  and  until 
this  day  has  the  moss-covered  tomb  never  been  disturbed. 

"My  kind,  adopted  mother,  in  fact,  the  only  one  I  ever 
knew,  had  a  sister  married  to  a  poor  mechanic,  who  lived  some 
distance  from  us.  I  wrote  her  immediately  after  Henry's 
death,  and  she  came  to  attend  her  sister  during  her  illness. 
From  the  goodness  of  her  heart,  she  resigned  all  claim  upon 
the  Graham  estate,  which  had  become  quite  valuable,  because 
I  had  been  engaged  and  was  shortly  to  have  been  married  to 


48  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Henry.  That  I  peremptorily  refused,  renouncing  all  claim,  in 
short,  had  none,  and  told  the  good  woman  it  was  rightfully  and 
justly  hers.  Then  she  came  with  her  husband  and  four  little 
children  to  live  in  my  old  home.  I  did  not  know  where  to  go, 
or  what  to  do,  but  fancied  some  strange  place  would  suit  me 
best.  So  I  started,  leaving  the  old  home  and  the  two  graves 
behind;  but  I  had  two  ghosts  with  me,  and  they  have  been  with 
me  ever  since. 

"  Being  unaccustomed  to  travelling,  I  asked  for  the  captain 
of  the  steamboat  on  which  I  had  taken  passage,  and  told  him  I 
was  alone,  that  I  had  lost  my  adopted  mother  and  brother  sud 
denly,  and,  with  limited  means,  wished  to  visit  a  Southern 
city  for  a  while,  as  everything  had  become  hateful  to  me  in  my 
old  home.  He  was  very  kind,  and  told  me  he  knew  of  a  place 
which  would  exactly  suit  me  in  the  city  where  his  boat  stopped, 
the  home  of  a  widowed  friend  of  his,  whose  slender  means 
compelled  her  to  take  a  few  boarders,  and  he  thought  she  would 
be  a  nice,  kind  person  to  advise  with  in  regard  to  any  future 
plans.  The  place  proved  all  the  captain  had  represented.  He 
called  to  see  me  every  time  he  came  to  the  city,  which  was 
twice  a  week,  and  appeared  greatly  interested  in  me.  My 
landlady  told  me  he  was  wealthy  and  good-hearted,  but  a  very 
immoral  man. 

"My  monotonous  life  soon  became  wearisome ;  I  yearned  for 
a  change  of  any  kind.  My  limited  means  compelled  me  to  live 
economically,  and  that  did  not  suit  me.  I  longed  for  excite 
ment,  the  only  thing  I  felt  that  could  drown  my  unhappy  past. 
I  knew  I  was  attractive,  and  determined  to  marry  the  captain, 
for  whom  I  had  not  even  a  feeling  of  gratitude,  as  I  considered 
his  kindness  entirely  selfish,  because  I  was  handsome,  and  my 
lonely  position  made  his  attentions  a  novelty  for  the  time. 

"  It  was  not  difficult  work  flattering  him  into  love-making,  and 


FREE    PRISONERS.  49 

in  less  than  six  months  we  were  married.  It  was  arranged  that 
I  should  continue  living  in  the  same  place,  and  my  husband 
would  be  there  two  days  in  the  week.  I  was  no  sooner  mar 
ried  than  I  threw  aside  my  amiable  submission,  moved  to  the 
first  hotel  in  the  city,  and,  knowing  the  Captain's  wealth,  fur 
nished  myself  with  an  equipage  and  attendance  accordingly. 
Finding  all  opposition  useless,  he  let  me  have  my  own  way,  and 
I  led  a  gay  and  merry  life.  Soon  after,  the  Captain  purchased 
an  elegant  home,  but  our  princely  magnificence  was  short-lived, 
for  he  failed  a  few  years  after,  and  went  to  India,  where  he  re 
mained  ten  years.  We  have  lived  in  the  same  house  since,  but 
I  have  never  been  a  wife  to  him,  and  never  will  be.  He  and  I 
know  the  reason,  which  is  sufficient.  I  despise  the  old  idiot, 
and  he  fears  me, 

"Now  you  know/tfr/  of  my  life.  You  will  never  love  me,  but 
you  will  fear  me.  Once  more,  you  must  marry  Mr.  Warren, 
because  I  command  you.  I  go  in  search  of  him,  to  give  your 
answer. ' ' 

She  closed  the  state-room  door,  and  was  gone. 

Linda  sat  like  one  stupefied ;  then,  from  the  depths  of  her 
heart,  she  cried  in  bitter  anguish  :  "  Merciful  God,  and  are  the 
sins  of  the  parents  to  be  visited  upon  the  children?"  As  if 
waiting  for  an  answer,  she  sat  silently  gazjng  before  her,  then 
instinctively  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  poured  out  her  first  heart 
sorrow  to  Him  who  is  ever  ready  and  willing  to  hear  those  who 
call  upon  His  name. 

Miss  Adams,  the  principal  of  the  school  where  Linda  had 
been  educated,  was  a  good  Christian  woman;  who  tried  to  in 
culcate  moral  and  religious  principles  in  the  young  minds  com 
mitted  to  her  care,  besides  making  them  accomplished  young 
ladies.  She  was  a  good  judge  of  human  nature,  and  'from  the 
manner  in  which  Mrs.  Wetherell  placed  her  daughter  in  school, 
5  D 


5O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

leaving  her  there  for  months  without  visiting  her,  when,  by 
three  hours'  travel  she  could  have  been  with  her,  made  Miss 
Adams  think  she  was  an  unloving  woman,  and,  true  to  the  re 
ligion  she  professed,  she  took  the  lonely  Linda  to  her  heart. 

Linda  loved  her  preceptress,  and  was  deeply  grateful  when 
troubles  came,  for  to  her  she  owed  much  of  the  strong,  womanly 
character  she  possessed,  and  years  after,  when  far  away  from 
her  protecting  care  and  motherly  advice,  she  realized  what  a 
watchful  friend  she  had  been  during  the  many  years  passed 
under  her  guidance. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  Linda  still  knelt  with  her  face  in 
her  hands,  occasionally  sobbing  aloud  from  the  bitterness  of 
her  sorrow-laden  heart.  Then  she  rose  and  retired  to  her  nar 
row  berth  over  her  mother's. 

"  How  everything  has  changed,"  she  said,  half  aloud.  "  This 
morning,  the  steamer  seemed  gliding  along  without  any  effort, 
breathing  like  a  child ;  to-night,  the  moon  is  hid,  the  billows 
roll,  and  the  ship  works  as  if  under  a  heavy  burden.  So  my 
heart  was  all  sunshine  this  morning,  but  now  my  sun  is  eclipsed. 
My  heart  beat  lightly  this  morning  ;  to-night  it  throbs  and  wells 
up  as  if  it  would  overflow." 

The  moon  came  peeping  in  at  the  half-open  window,  leaving 
a  silvery  pathway  over  the  trackless  ocean,  and  a  ray  of  light  in 
Linda's  aching  heart,  that  brightened  the  sweet  young  face,  and 
left  it  full  of  hope,  as  she  asked  herself,  with  childish  disdain : 
"Why  should  I  despair?  That  is  God's  handiwork,  and  so 
am  I.  He  guards  that  with  its  myriads  of  creatures  and  its 
fathomless  depths,  and  so  He  will  me.  That  is  vast  and  sub 
limely  grand,  and  so  am  I,  for  am  not  I  made  in  the  likeness 
of  God  himself?  One  storm  does  not  annihilate  old  ocean, 
but  makes  it  all  the  mightier  and  grander ;  and  so  shall  the 
storms  that  overshadow  my  heart  leave  it  all  the  more  patient 


FREE    PRISONERS.  $1 

and  good.     Old  ocean,  you  are  a  queer  old  personage  to  com 
pare  with  a  maiden  of  seventeen." 

She  heard  her  mother  bidding  Mr.  Warren  good-night,  in 
her  pleasantest  tone.  The  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Wetherell 
swept  in,  filling  the  entire  state-room  with  her  august  presence. 
Through  the  partly  drawn  curtain  Linda  regarded  her  face 
as  she  disrobed  for  the  night.  Not  once  did  she  even  glance 
toward  the  berth  where  her  daughter  lay.  Her  eyes  had  a 
strange,  wild  expression,  and  her  face  was  very  pale.  She  did 
not  kneel  to  ask  God's  blessing  during  that  last  night  out  on 
the  sea;  so  Linda  involuntarily  offered  up  a  childish  petition 
for  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

.  THROUGH    THE   GOLDEN    GATE   TO    THE    MOUNTAIN    HOME. 

IT  was  noon  when  the  "  Sonora  "  fired  her  gun  as  she  passed 
through  the  Golden  Gate.     The  bleak,  barren,  sand  hills  of 
San  Francisco  were  anything  but  inviting,  and  the  weight 
at  Linda's  heart  made  everything  appear  terribly  dismal. 

She  expected  her  father  and  brother  to  meet  them,  but 
neither  was  there.  Instead,  a  stranger  handed  Mrs.  Wetherell 
a  letter  from  the  Captain,  stating  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
leave  home,  but  his  friend  being  in  San  Francisco  on  business, 
would  kindly  pay  them  wany  necessary  attention.  Mrs.  Weth 
erell  thanked  him  politely,  but  declined  any  assistance,  as  Mr. 
Warren  was  going  with  them  as  far  as  Sacramento,  and  would 
gladly  attend  to  their  wants. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  they  landed,  and 
having  no  object  in  remaining  in  San  Francisco,  they  took  the 


52  FREE    PRISONERS. 

steamer  for  Sacramento  at  four,  and  were  soon  on  their  way  up 
the  picturesque  stream  of  that  name.  They  arrived  at  Sacra 
mento  during  the  night,  and  at  six  o'clock  the  next  morning 
took  the  stage  for  Grass  Valley,  leaving  Mr.  Warren  behind, 
much  to  Linda's  delight. 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  they  arrived  at  their 
destination,  after  having  been  driven  rapidly  for  twelve  hours, 
by  a  reckless  driver  of  four  rearing,  plunging  mustangs,  over 
hills  and  down  dales,  over  rocks  and  ruts,  that  almost  sent  their 
heads  through  the  top  of  the  stage. 

Mrs.  Wetherell  did  not  speak  one  word  to  Linda  during  the 
entire  day.  While  Mr.  Warren  was  still  with  them  her  man 
ner  was  unchanged,  but  after  leaving  him,  one  might  have 
taken  them  for  strangers.  Linda  would  not  force  any  conver 
sation  upon  her  mother  when  she  met  with  no  response,  and 
Mrs.  Wetherell  took  that  unwomanly  way  of  showing  her  dis 
pleasure  towards  her  daughter. 

The  stage  took  them  to  the  door  of  their  vine-covered 
cottage,  where  the  Captain  was  waiting  to  receive  them.  He 
took  Linda  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  affectionately,  but  he 
only  shook  hands  with  his  wife. 

There  was  a  pleasant-faced  housemaid,  who  had  a  steaming 
supper  in  readiness ;  but  the  brother,  Ben,  was  not  there. 

"  Father,  where  is  Ben  ?  "  asked  Linda. 

"  He  stepped  out  a  short  time  ago,  my  dear,"  answered  the 
Captain;  "perhaps  he  went  to  the  stage-office,  thinking  you 
might  stop  there." 

The  door  opened,  and  Ben  made  his  appearance.  Linda 
ran  to  meet  and  embrace  him. 

"  Dear  Linda,  I  a*n  so  glad  to  see  you  once  more,"  he  said, 
and  went  to  welcome  his  mother.  She  offered  him  her  cheek, 
which  he  kissed,  and  going  back  to  Linda,  stood  with  his  arm 


FREE    PRISONERS.  53 

about  her  waist,  regarding  her  with  affectionate  admiration. 
They  were  a  handsome  couple,  that  brother  and  sister,  for  Ben, 
in  his  commanding,  manly  way,  was  quite  as  handsome  as 
Linda. 

* '  You  quite  surprise  me,  Linda.  You  have  grown  so  hand 
some,"  said  he,  earnestly. 

"Happiness  is  always  a  great  beautifier,"  laughed  Linda. 
"But  I  think  I  can  safely  return  your  compliment." 

"  Owing,  -undoubtedly,  to  the  same  magic  power." 

"  None  of  your  raillery  to  begin  with,  Ben.  I  remember 
well  what  a  tease  you  used  to  be." 

"I  have  changed  since  then,  Linda.  In  fact,  I  am  so  com 
pletely  reformed,  I  have  lost  the  art  of  tormenting. " 

"For  which  I  offer  up  thanks,"  said  Linda,  with  feigned 
seriousness. 

They  passed  the  entire  evening  together,  talking  of  the 
.changes  that  had  taken  place  since  their  separation,  of  the 
old  pleasures  in  the  years  gone  by,  and  asked  and  answered 
innumerable  questions  interesting  only  to  themselves. 

"  I  am  very  fortunate  in  having  you  to  escort  me  around 
this  wild  country,  Ben,"  said  Linda. 

"I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  I  am  working  very  indus 
triously  now,  and  will  have  little  time  to  come  down  here." 

"  Where  do  you  work,  and  what  do  you  do?  "  asked  Linda, 
eagerly. 

"I  am  mining,  not  very  far  from  here,  with  two  splendid 
young  fellows." 

"Then  I  am  disappointed,  indeed.  I  thought,  of  course, 
you  would  be  at  home  with  me  at  least  every  evening. ' ' 

"  That  will  be  impossible.     I  can  only  be  with  you  on  Sun 
days,  and  perhaps  not  every  Sunday.     Besides,  I  would  not 
stay  at  home,  if  I  was  in  town  all  the  time." 
5* 


54  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"Pray,  why  not?" 

"For  reasons  that  are  better  left  unexplained,"  said  Ben, 
bitterly. 

"As  you  like,  dear,"  answered  Linda,  who  never  forced  a 
question  upon  anyone.  "  I  often  wondered  you  never  wrote 
me  what  your  business  was,  and  father  only  mentioned  occa 
sionally  that  you  were  well." 

Ben  laughed  a  hard  sort  of  laugh. 

"  He  actually  took  the  trouble  to  report  occasionally  that  I 
was  well,  did  he?  I  wonder  how  he  obtained  his  valuable 
information." 

"I  was  speaking  of  father,"  said  Linda,  in  astonishment. 
"You  could  not  have  understood  me." 

"I  understood  perfectly,"  and  Ben  compressed  his  lips 
firmly  an  instant.  "But  that  is  a  topic  I  should  have 
avoided,  for  my  feelings  towards  him  make  me  say  bitter 
things.  For  over  two  years  I  have  not  spoken  to  him  nor 
entered  this  house. ' ' 

"  You  really  cannot  mean  what  you  say,  Ben  ?  " 

"Every  word,  Linda.  But  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  such 
things  to-night,"  added  he,  regretfully. 

"Before  you  came  in,  I  asked  father  where  you  were,"  con 
tinued  Linda,  "  and  he  told  me  you  had  just  stepped  out.  Per 
haps  you  had  gone  to  the  stage-office,  thinking  we  might  have 
stopped  there." 

"  Here  is  a  note  I  received  from  him  yesterday.  It  will  ex 
plain." 

Linda  took  the  note  and  read  : 

MY  DEAR  SON  :  —  Your  mother  and  sister  are  expected  to 
arrive  in  Grass  Valley  to-morrow  evening.  Perhaps  I  have 
been  a  little  severe  with  you.  Although  I  have  scarcely  seen 
you  for  the  past  two  years,  I  invite  you  home  to  meet  them,  and 


FREE    PRISONERS.  55 

hope  all  differences  between  us  will  never  be  again  thought  of, 
much  less  mentioned. 

Your  forgiving  father, 

RICHARD  WETHERELL. 

"What  could  you  have  done  to  displease  father  so?"  asked 
Linda,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  one  of  those  inexplicable  things  better  left  unanswered, 
Linda.  Differences  and  disagreements  usually  arise  from  a 
want  of  mutual  understanding,  but  sometimes  from  too  good 
an  understanding.  Even  with  those  immediately  connected, 
friendship  is  a  curious  thing,  and  fragile  as  an  exotic.  Respect 
and  confidence  are  its  vital  organs.  When  they  become  dis 
eased,  the  shadowy  thing  vanishes,  as  if  swept  by  the  four 
winds  of  heaven,  and  can  no  more  be  brought  to  life  than  the 
ashes  of  the  dead." 

"  Then  I  am  to  infer  that  you  and  father  have  had  a  misun 
derstanding  ?" 

"  Au  contraire,  ma  chere,  we  have  had  an  understanding — a 
much  more  fatal  thing  in  its  result." 

"  I  hope  it  is  all  a  mistake.  It  would  grieve  me  to  have  you 
and  father  at  variance,  for  mother  and  I  had  a  very  unpleasant 
scene  the  last  night  out  at  sea,  which  has  caused  a  coldness  be 
tween  us." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that.     What  was  the  matter,  little  one  ? ' ' 

"As  you  have  already  said,  Ben,  we  must  not  speak  of  un 
pleasant  things  to-night.  Besides,  it  was  nothing  of  much 
consequence,  now  that  it  is  over,"  answered  Linda,  blushing 
deeply. 

"We will  not  resurrect  it  then,"  said  Ben,  noticing  her  con 
fusion.  "  We  will  speak  only  of  pleasant  things  the  first  even 
ing  we  have  been  together  for  five  years :  it  seems  ten  to  me, 
Linda,  I  have  missed  you  so  much.  Try  to  be  patient,  and 


56  FREE    PRISONERS. 

endure  as  cheerfully  as  possible  the  unpleasant  life  you  may 
have  to  lead  here,  and  I  hope,  before  many  months,  to  be  able 
to  take  you  to  a  home  of  my  own." 

"  That  would  be  delightful.  Do  you  know,  I  think  I  would 
make  a  very  efficient  housekeeper  for  you,  Ben." 

Ben  smiled  rather  incredulously  at  Linda's  remark,  as  he 
bade  her  affectionately  good -night. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  FAIRY   IN   THE   SIERRAS. 

IT  was  one  of  those  sweet,  balmy  days  when  spring  is  being 
lost  in  summer.  Nellie  and  the  children  had  wandered  far 

away  from  home  over  the  hills.  The  little  ones  were  running 
about  gathering  wild  flowers,  while  Nellie  sat  in  the  shade  of  a 
great  cluster  of  manzanitas,  reading.  Her  attention  was  at 
tracted  by  a  sweet  voice  saying : 

"Where  did  you  come  from,  little  folks?  Are  you  not  lost 
upon  these  great  mountains  ?  ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am,"  answered  Nellie's  bright  boy,  Hugh. 
"  We  came  from  home,  and  we  know  the  way  back." 

"  Do  you,  indeed?  Then  you  are  wiser  than  I  am."  Tak 
ing  Daisy  up  in  her  arms,  Linda  Wetherell,  for  it  was  none 
other,  said : 

"  I  think  you  are  a  little  fairy,  and  have  no  home." 

"Do  you  really  think  she  is  a  fairy?"  asked  Hugh,  very 
honestly. 

"I  almost  believe  so,"  said  Linda,  amused  at  his  earnest- 


FREE    PRISONERS.  57 

ness,  "because  she  is  such  a  tiny  creature  to  be  running  about 
here  alone." 

"  We  are  not  alone.     There  is  our  mamma." 

Hugh  pointed  to  where  his  mother  sat,  and  ran  to  her  side 
with  the  mysterious  whisper,  "  Mamma,  here  is  somebody  we  do 
not  know,  and  she  is  such  a  pretty  lady. ' ' 

Being  thus  introduced  by  her  little  son,  Nellie  immediately 
rose  to  meet  Linda  with  her  habitual  affability. 

"  I  thought  my  little  ones  and  I  were  the  only  wanderers 
over  these  hills.  It  is  a  pleasant  surprise  to  meet  with  com 
pany.  ' ' 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Linda,  warmly.  "I  am  a  stranger 
here.  We  only  arrived  a  short  time  ago,  and,  from  the  appear 
ance  of  the  place,  I  did  not  think  there  was  an  agreeable  human 
being  in  it.  It  is  a  happy  surprise  to  meet  some  one  with  whom 
I  can  converse.  I  am  home-sick,  though  I  have  no  other  home 
to  yearn  for.  I  never  was  so  utterly  unhappy  in  my  life." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  such  expressions  from  one  so  young," 
said  Nellie,  sympathetically.  "I  admif  this  is  not  a  very  in 
viting  place,  but  you  will  soon  become  accustomed  to  it,  and 
like  it  better.  I  have  been  here  several  years,  and  am  quite 
attached  to  it. ' ' 

"  But  were  you  not  very  unhappy  when  you  first  arrived?  " 

"  No,  I  never  was  unhappy,  for  my  husband  and  children 
were  with  me,  and  where  they  are  I  could .  not  be  unhappy. 
Besides,  my  brother  was  here  to  welcome  us,  which  made  it 
much  pleasanter  than  it  otherwise  would  have  been,  for  we  felt 
satisfied  to  live  any  place  where  he  was." 

"I  am  old  enough  to  be  more  philosophical,"  said  Linda, 
with  a  sigh;  "but  look  at  that  cluster  of  little  houses,  and 
those  barren  hills.  The  heart  of  the  place  has  been  dug  out 
by  miners,  and  it  is  an  unshapely  mass  of  red  earth,  with 


$8  FREE    PRISONERS. 

nothing  left  of  the  pretty  stream  but  mud  puddles  here  and 
there." 

"  True,  the  miners  have  done  great  damage  to  the  beauty  of 
the  place,  but  great  wealth  has  been  found ;  and,  after  all,  we 
are  only  staying  here  until  we  feel  able  to  live  in  a  pleasanter 
place." 

"  I  would  rather  be  a  beggar  in  New  York  than  a  millionaire 
in  California,"  exclaimed  Linda,  desperately. 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  you  will  soon  have  cause  to  change  your 
unfavorable  opinion,"  and  Nellie's  sweet  persuasive  powers 
were  strained  to  the  utmost  to  lay  the  foundation  for  the  fulfil 
ment  of  her  wish,  as  they  strolled  down  the  hillside,  chatting 
merrily.  When  they  arrived  at  Nellie's  home,  they  parted  like 
old  acquaintances,  with  promises  to  meet  the  following  day. 

"  So  that  is  the  daughter  of  that  old  hypocrite,  Captain 
Wetherell,"  thought  Nellie,  as  she  stood  a  moment  looking 
after  Linda.  "  Her  brother  is  a  wild  fellow,  her  mother  a  ter 
magant,  so  Walter  says ;  and,  notwithstanding  those  connec 
tions,  she  is  just  as  sweet  as  she  can  be." 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  going  in  search  of  you  runaways," 
said  George,  as  he  met  them  at  the  door.  "  You  must  have 
enjoyed  your  walk,  for  I  saw  you  when  you  were  starting  out 
over  two  hours  ago." 

"We  did,  my  dear,"  answered  Nellie,  as  she  sat  down  by  her 
husband's  side.  -  "We  met  Miss  Wetherell,  who  was  also  wan 
dering  over  the  hills.  She  is  very  lonesome  here,  poor  thing." 

"  Is  she  a  Venus  or  a  Sphinx  ?  a  demon  or  an  angel  ?  "  asked 
Walter. 

"I  think  she  is  an  angel,"  answered  Nellie,  decidedly. 

"Of  course  you  do.  My  little  sister  thinks  this  world  is 
populated  with  angels,  but  I  am  afraid  this  one  will  soon  shed 
her  wings." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  $9 

"Walter,  you  should  see  her  before  you  judge." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  anxious.    If  her  society  affords  you  pleasure, 

I  am  content.     For  my  part,  I  am  not  desirous  of  cultivating 

my  acquaintance  with  that  family. ' ' 


CHAPTER   X. 

ON-FLOWING  TIDES    OF    DESTINY. 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  voice  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet." 

next  day,  according  to  promise,  Linda  wandered  for 
hours  with  Nellie  and  the  children  over  the  hills,  gathering 
the  choice  wild  flowers,  and  went  home  laden  with  their 
pretty  treasures.  As  Nellie  insisted  upon  her  remaining  to  tea, 
she  left  word  at  home  where  she  could  be  found,  and  returned 
delighted  to  be  a  visitor  in  that  cosy,  homelike  cottage. 

She  possessed  a  special  gift  for  charming  children.  When 
with  them,  she  seemed  almost  a  child  herself,  so  merry  was 
her  laughter,  so  true  her  hazel  eyes,  and  so  heartily  did  she 
enter  into  all  their  youthful  pleasures. 

Sitting  on  a  stool  with  Fairy,  as  she  insisted  upon  calling 
Daisy,  on  her  lap,  Hugh  kneeling  on  the  floor  by  her  side, 
leaning  with  both  arms  upon  her  knee,  she  was  telling  them  a 
wonderful  fairy  tale  about  "  Hop  o'  my  thumb." 

When  Walter  came  up  unheard,  seeing  the  little  group  so 
deeply  interested  in  their  story,  he  quietly  sat  down  upon  the 
veranda  until  it  was  ended.  He  felt  sure  the  pretty  narrator 
was  Miss  Wetherell,  and  would  have  been  quite  inclined  to  think 
with  Nellie  that  she  was  almost  an  angel,  had  she  been  the 


6O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

daughter  of  any  one  else  than  Captain  Wetherell.  She  had  a 
pleasing,  musical  voice,  and  as  she  finished  the  story,  she  kissed 
each  little  one  sweetly,  and,  to  Hugh's  .entreaties  for  another, 
said: 

"  No  more  stories  to-day,  dear.  You  might  get  tired  of 
listening.  The  next  time  I  come  I  will  tell  you  another.  Let 
us  go  <3utside,  now,  and  see  if  we  cannot  find  something  there 
to  interest  us." 

Hugh  caught  sight  of  his  uncle,  and  ran  to  him  with  out 
stretched  arms,  saying :  "  Oh,  Uncle  Walter..  You  should  have 
come  a  little  sooner,  and  heard  the  lovely  story. ' ' 

Nellie  immediately  came  and  introduced  her  new  friend  to 
her  brother,  and  they  sat  talking,  as  strangers  naturally  do,  of 
everything  in  general  and  nothing  in  particular,  until  George 
came,  when  supper  was  announced. 

Walter  was  determined  to  dislike  Miss  Wetherell,  but  when 
he  felt  inclined  to  be  sarcastic  or  disagreeable,  a  single  glance 
of  her  soft,  brown  eyes  would  compel  him  not  only  to  speak 
very  respectfully,  but  kindly. 

They  were  leaving  the  table,  when  Walter  said  : 

"I  almost  forgot  to  tell  you  about  the  stage  robbery  last 
night." 

"  Stage  robbery  !  "  exclaimed  Linda.  "  Oh,  this  barbarous 
country !  " 

"  Was  it  near  here?  "  asked  Nellie. 

"About  nine  miles  from  here,  just  this  side  of  Indian  Springs. 
One  of  the  passengers  was  so  frightened,  he  let  himself  down 
from  the  top  of  the  stage  and  walked  back.  He  says  it  was  one 
of  the  boldest  robberies  ever  perpetrated.  There  were  eight 
men  in  the  stage  and  two  on  top  with  the  driver.  The  horses 
were  going  along  at  a  lively  trot,  when  suddenly  a  lighted  torch 
was  thrown  in  front  of  them.  It  demoralized  the  little  mus- 


FREE    PRISONERS.  6l 

tangs  so  completely,  that  it  was  impossible  to  proceed.  The 
leaders  threw  themselves  back  on  the  wheel-horses,  which,  in 
their  desperate  efforts  to  get  away,  became  worse  entangled. 
Of  course,  that  all  happened  like  a  flash.  Simultaneously,  four 
masked  men  came  out  of  the  bushes  and  demande'd  Wells  & 
Fargo 's  treasury  box." 

"They  did  not  get  it,  did  they?"  asked  Nellie,  impa 
tiently. 

"  Yes,  they  did.  The  driver  and  the  passengers  were  taken 
so  completely  off  their  guard,  they  were  wholly  unprepared ; 
whereas,  the  four  men  each  held  two  pistols  ready  for  use. 
The  driver  felt  not  only  his  own  life,  but  that  of  his  passengers 
were  at  stake ;  so  he  was  really  compelled  to  surrender. 

"The  man  who  gave  the  report  said  he  let  himself  down 
from  the  top  of  the  stage  while  the  box  was  being  delivered. 
He  was  in  the  chaparral  when  the  robbers  passed  within  three 
feet  of  him.  He  saw  them  break  the*  box  open,  and  heard  their 
discussions  about  dividing  the  spoil.  He  says  he  can  identify 
every  one,  for  he  saw  them  distinctly  by  the  light  of  their  lan 
terns,  with  their  masks  off." 

"I  hope  he  can  and  will.  Such  desperadoes  should  be 
brought  to  justice,"  said  Nellie,  energetically. 

"  It  is  scarcely  probable  they  will  be  caught,  "answered  George. 
"The  country  is  so  thinly  populated,  they  can  wander  about 
for  months  and  avoid  detection,  if  they  have  had  the  fore 
thought  to  provide  provisions." 

"They  will  not  be  likely  to  do  that,"  said  Walter.  "In  all 
probability  they  will  come  directly  into  town,  and  show  they 
are  flush  by  betting  heavily  at  a  gambling-table,  and  in  that 
way  betray  themselves. ' ' 

"If  robberies  will  occur,  and  robbers  will  get  caught,  it  is 
surely  no  fault  of  mine,"  said  Nellie*  "So  long  as  you  and 


62  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Walter  are  honest  and  good,  why  should  I  grieve  over  others' 
bad  husbands  and  brothers  ? ' ' 

Walter  looked  inquiringly  at  this  new  development  in  Nellie's 
usually  sympathetic  soul,  as  he  exclaimed : 

"What  a  philosophical  little  woman  you  are  getting  to  be, 
Nell !  I  have.no'  doubt  they  cause  enough  hearts  to  ache  with 
out  yours  to  swell  the  number." 

They  were  all  anxious  to  hear  the  latest  news,  so  Walter  and 
George  walked  up  town  to  hear  if  there  were  any  further  de 
velopments,  and  if  any  of  the  robbers  had  come  to  grief. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

UNDER-CURRENTS. 

MONTHS  had  passed  since  Linda's  arrival  in  Grass  Valley, 
during  which  time  her  mother  had  left  her  entirely  to  her 
own  resources,  scarcely  noting  her  existence,  except  on 
the  reception  of  letters  from  Mr.  Warren,  and  once  during  a 
visit  from  that  gentleman  she  assumed  her  motherly  interest. 

The  Captain  appeared  very  fond  of  her,  but  was  always  oc 
cupied,  and  spent  very  little  time  at  home. 

Soon  after  the  arrival  of  his  family,  he  purchased  an  interest 
in  a  mill  above  Nevada,  about  seven  miles  from  Grass  Valley ; 
and  as  it  did  not  prove  a  success  under  the  management  of  his 
partner,  he  went  there  himself  to  superintend  it,  and  seldom 
visited  home  oftener  than  once  a  month. 

One  evening,  after  a  peaceful,  happy  day  spent  at  the  cottage, 
Linda  went  home,  and,  unobserved,  retired  to  her  own  room. 
Hearing  her  father's  voice,  she  started  to  meet  him,  when  she 


FREE    PRISONERS.         ,  63 

was  arrested  by  her  mother  saying  in  an  unusually  loud  manner  : 
"  What  is  your  object  in  remaining  in  Nevada  all  the  time, 
Captain  Wetherell?" 

"I  do  not  remain  in  Nevada,  madam."  replied  the  Captain, 
coolly.  "1  am  overseeing  my  mill,  three  miles  from  there." 

"  Do  you  intend  remaining  there?  " 

"Yes,  so  long  as  it  is  necessary." 

"Then,  why  did  you  insist  upon  my  coming  out  here,  to 
mope  my  time  away.  My  society  is  surely  no  pleasure  to  you.  '  ' 

"Well,  I  cannot  say  that  it  is  absolutely  disagreeable,  seven 
miles  distant." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Wetherell, 
curtly. 

"  Simply,  that  distance  lends  enchantment  even  to  your 
amiability  and  loveliness,"  said  the  Captain,  bluntly. 

"  I  never  could  understand  your  stupid  efforts  at  witticisms." 

"  I  know  you  were  always  rather  dull,  my  dear." 

"  That  will  do,  Captain  Wetherell.  Once  again,  I  want  to 
know  what  your  object  could  have  been  in  bringing  me  out 
here.  You  know  I  would  have  been  much  more  pleasantly  situ 
ated  East." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  would." 

"It  is  surely  no  pleasure  to  have  me  with  you,"  continued 
Mrs.  Wetherell,  in  a  more  subdued  tone. 

"I  should  say  not,"  and  the  Captain's  serene,  almost  smil 
ing  countenance,  exasperated  Mrs.  Wetherell  much  more  than 
anger  would  have  done. 

"Then,"  exclaimed  she,  excitedly,  "what  in  the  name  of 
Heaven  did  you  bring  me  here  for  ?  ' 

"  Do  not  call  upon  places  so  remote,  my  dear,  and  so  utterly 
unattainable  by  you,  and  I  will  tell  you.  '  ' 

From  the   Captain's  complacent  manner,   one  might  have 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


64  FREE    PRISONERS. 

thought  he  was  making  a  few  pious  remarks  at  a  church  meet 
ing,  as  he  continued : 

"I  brought  you  here  to  make  you  as  miserable  as  possible, 
my  fair  old  dame.  You  are  piqued  because  there  are  other 
ladies  here  quite  as  handsome  as  you  were  fifteen  or  twenty 
years  ago.  Then  gentlemen,  in  all  probability,  prefer  the  hand 
some  daughter  to  the  old  mother.  I  bid  you  good-evening, 
my  sweet  creature,"  and  he  stalked  past  her  and  out  of  the 
house. 

Seeing  Linda,  and  not  dreaming  she  had  overheard  his  con 
versation,  he  embraced  her,  and  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  her 
forehead. 

"Why,  my  dear,  have  you  returned?  I  feared  I  was  not 
going  to  see  my  little  girl  this  visit.  Go  in,  dear,  and  stay  with 
your  mamma.  This  dull  place  is  tiresome  for  her.  You  know 
she  has  always  been  accustomed  to  gayety,  and  I  am  compelled 
to  be  absent  so  much."  He  kissed  her  again  and  was  gone. 

Linda,  in  her  amazement,  could  not  answer  one  word.  She 
sat  long  in  the  twilight,  thinking  what  a  strange  world  had  been 
revealed  to  her  during  the  few  previous  months.  How  the 
pathway  of  spring  flowers  she  had  so  lightly  trodden  was  sud 
denly  transformed  into  a  precipitous,  rocky  cliff,  rising  higher 
and  higher  as  her  weary  feet  essayed  to  climb.  The  poor  child, 
the  beautiful  girl,  felt  like  a  wreck  tossed  upon  a  boundless  sea 
without  rudder  or  compass. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  65 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE   OLD    LOVE   AND    THE   NEW. 

"  She  listened,  while  a  sweet  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes." 

E  next  morning  the  sun  rose  gloriously;  the  air  was 
bracing  and  fresh,  as  it  went  sighing  through  the  lofty 
pines  that  filled  it  With  their  aromatic  perfume. 

Linda  took  a  long  walk,  and  returned  by  the  cottage,  where 
she  found  Nellie  busy  as  usual. 

"A  bad  penny  always  returns,"  she  said,  with  her  sweetest 
smile,  as  Nellie  greeted  her.  "  I  am  sure,  if  some  busy  god 
dess  were  to  take  upon  herself  the  arduous  task  of  transforming 
me  into  my  normal  condition,  I  would  develop  into  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  that  valueless  appendage  to  your  household 
gods,  for,  wander  where  I  will,  I  naturally  gravitate  here." 

"It  is  because  you  are  always  welcome,  Linda;  not  that 
there  is  any  simile  between  you  and  the  old  proverb." 

"  You  are  very  generous  and  kind  with  your  friendship,  Mrs. 
Gray,  for  idlers,  like  me,  often  levy  heavy  taxes  upon  their 
friends  by  robbing  them  of  their  valuable  time  in  frivolous 
visits." 

"  Seriously,  Linda,  you  have  no  idea  what  a  comfort  you  are 
to  me.  I  have  not  the  leisure,  had  I  the  inclination,  to  visit 
among  my  neighbors,  and  your  unceremonious  visits  are  a  real 
source  of  happiness  to  me." 

"It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to  say  so,"  and  Linda  wound  her 
arm   about  her  friend.     "As  beggars  seek   their  daily  bread 
from  door  to  door,  I  come  to  you  for  happiness.     You  live  in 
6*  E 


66  FREE    PRISONERS. 

such  sweet  harmony  in  your  little  cottage,  and  in  my  own 
home  I  find  no  congeniality. 

"  There  was  an  old  widower  on  board  the  steamer,  when  we 
were  coming  out  here  from  New  York,  who  wished  me  to  marry 
him,"  and  her  eyes  flashed  at  the  mere  mention  of  those  disa 
greeable  scenes  of  the  past.  "  Mother  said  he  was  rich,  and 
she  wished  me  to  marry  him  on  that  account ;  although  she 
knew  my  only  feeling  for  him  was  profound  contempt.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  ever  disobeyed  my  mother ;  but  I  could  not 
comply  with  her  request,  and  positively  refused.  Since  then 
she  has  only  spoken  to  me  when  compelled,  and  from  her  man 
ner,  I  live  in  daily  dread  of  renewed  trouble.  In  fact,  she 
insists  upon  enforcing  her  determination." 

"You  poor,  dear  child."  Nellie's  sympathizing  heart  was 
touched.  She  drew  Linda's  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
stroking  the  soft  brown  hair,  said,  in  her  sweet,  gentle  way : 

"I  cannot  advise  you  to  do  anything  contrary  to  your 
parents'  wishes,  but  I  think  it  equally  sinful  to  marry  a  man  for 
gain  whom  you  cannot  love." 

"Thank  you  for  those  reassuring  words,  Mrs.  Gray,"  and 
Linda's  soft  hazel  eyes  were  moist  with  unshed  tears.  "  1 
know  it  is  not  right  to  disobey,  yet.  I  am  equally  sure  it  would 
in  this  case  be  wrong  to  obey.  Of  the  two  evils,  I  choose  the 
lesser,  and  bear  the  ills  myself,  rather  than  force  them  upon 
another,  who  is  surely  deceived.  I  can  never  marry  him. 
Never !  no  matter  what  the  result  might  be.  It  is  possible  I 
cannot  live  with  mother,  but  in  that  case  I  will  go  to  Ben. 
Poor  fellow,  he  has  no  one  to  care  for  him  but  me." 

"You  shall  never  be  in  want  of  a  home,  Linda,  for  you  have 
endeared  yourself  to  us  all  by  your  sweetness  and  intelligence. 
Sometimes,  dear,"  and  Nellie  drew  her  closer  to  her,  "I  trem 
ble  for  Belle  Burton  when  I  see  Walter  looking  so  fondly  at 


FREE    PRISONERS.  67 

you.  Do  you  remember  I  told  you  once  of  their  having  been 
engaged  to  be  married,  and  how  it  was  broken  off,  and  about 
her  writing  to  him  after  so  many  years?" 

"I  remember,"  said  Linda,  softly. 

"I  do  not  believe  he  loves  her  at  all,"  continued  Nellie. 
"  Not  exactly  that,  either.  I  am  sure  he  loved  her  once,  and 
if  they  were  to  meet  again  under  favorable  circumstances,  he 
might  be  as  fond  of  her  as  ever.  I  think  she  expects  him  to 
return  and  marry  her." 

Little  did  Nellie  think  what  sharp  pain  she  inflicted  upon  her 
listener  with  every  word  she  uttered. 

Linda  simply  answered,  "I  hope  they  will  be  happy." 
There  was  a  slight  quiver  about  her  mouth  as  sh<?  uttered  those 
words,  but  Nellie  did  not  notice  it,  and  soon  after  left  her  to 
attend  to  some  duties  in  an  adjoining  room. 

Although  the  morning  had  been  unusually  fine,  there  had 
been  indications  of  rain  for  several  days.  Before  noon,  the 
heavens  became  clouded,  the  wind  blew  fiercely,  and  great 
raindrops  fell  —  the  first  of  the  rainy  season. 

Linda  sat  by  the  window  watching  the  drops  as  they  fell 
faster  and  faster,  until  they  came  down  in  torrents.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  flood-gates  of  heaven  were  opened  wide  to  pour  down 
upon  the  earth,  all  at  once,  what  the  dry  summer  had  so  long 
been  thirsting  for. 

It  was  one  of  those  days  that  are  dark  and  dreary,  that  natu 
rally  make  one  feel  forlorn,  and  Nellie's  conversation  added 
bitter  drops  to  the  wretched  rain.  Linda  felt  as  if  it  was  rain 
ing  in  her  heart,  too,  it  seemed  so  chilled,  and  from  its  very 
depths  she  cried : 

"  Why  was  I  ever  brought  here  to  love  those  deep  black  eyes, 
that  seem  to  read  my  every  thought,  and  make  my  life-blood 
bound  and  burn  in  my  veins  ?  What  torture  to  hear  of  his 


68         .  FREE    PRISONERS. 

marrying  another.  Thrice  blessed  Belle  !  Can  ye  take  him 
from  me,  ye  fates,  and  leave  me  in  desolation,  as  seared  and 
barren  as  the  scorching  wastes  of  Sahara  ? 

"  Dante/  I  could  tell  you  of  another  hell.  At  eighteen  I 
have  found  it.  What  could  be  more  exquisite  torture  on  earth, 
or  in  the  infernal,  than  to  smile  and  seem  indifferent  when  you 
hear  how  the  only  one  you  love  on  earth  loves  another,  and  she 
is  to  become  his  wife?  " 

There  were  footsteps  on  the  walk ;  a  manly  form  came  towards 
the  house.  What  of  the  rain  in  Linda's  heart?  After  the 
shower  the  sunshine,  and  one  smile  from  Walter  French,  as 
Linda  opened  the  door  for  him,  dissipated  every  cloud  from  her 
stormy  heart.  *  Women  are  tender  plants.  They  only  grow  in 
sunshine ;  shadows  deform  the  heart,  as  every  sorrow  embitters 
a  joy. 

"  Is  this  not  an  unusual  hour  for  you  to  come  home?"  asked 
Linda. 

"It  is  rather  early;  but  I  am  at  leisure,  and  would  much 
prefer  being  with  you  than  remaining  alone  at  the  office?  " 

"  But  how  did  you  know  you  would  find  me  ?  " 

"  I  submitted  myself  to  the  gods,  and  they  brought  me  to  my 
goddess.  If  I  could  only  say  with  Julius  Csesar,  after  his 
victory  over  Pharnaces,  '  Veni,  vidi,  vici,'  my  happiness  would 
be  complete.  So  far  as  I  can  I  will  quote  the  noble  victor. 
I  came,  I  saw,  and  when  may  I  add  conquered,  Linda?  " 

"  When  you  have  married  Belle  Burton.     You  know  the  old 

song  says : 

'  It 's  good  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

It 's  good  to  be  honest  and  true, 

It's  good  to  be  off  wi'  the  old  love, 

Before  you  be  on  wi'  the  new.'  " 

Although  Walter's  searching  gaze  never  left  her  face,  he  read 


FREE    PRISONERS.  69 

there  only  what  he  had  already  seen.  Her  eyes  were  frank  and 
truthful,  her  voice  soft  and  musical,  her  cheeks  crimson.  If  a 
little  more  so  than  usual,  his  remarks  had  been  a  little  freer 
than  ordinary,  and  Linda  was  a  modest  maiden. 

"I  will  never  marry  Belle  Burton,"  said  Walter,  firmly. 
"  Nellie  has  been  talking  nonsense  to  you.  She  is  so  fond  of 
me,  she  says  and  thinks  whatever  she  fancies  would  give  me  the 
greatest  pleasure,  —  and  it  would  be  useless  to  restrain  her  so 
long  as  she  is  happy  in  her  womanly  arrangements.  I  foolishly 
showed  her  a  letter  from  Belle,  over  a  year  ago,  and  that  res 
urrected  the  old,  dead  topic.  I  answered  the  letter,  and  told 
Belle,  if  my  business  would  permit,  I  would  pay  a  visit  East  a 
year  from  that  time ;  that  I  wanted  to  see  my  old-  home  in  the 
South,  and  would  be  pleased  to  meet  her.  That  was  the  extent 
of  our  renewal  of  friendship.  There  was  nothing  whatever  said 
of  marriage.  .  I  have  received  two  or  three  friendly  letters  from 
her  since.  The  last  one  is  still  unanswered.  I  could  not  con 
veniently  leave  my  business  when  the  year  had  passed,  and  now 
do  not  wish  to. 

"  If  you  had  not  grown  so  dear  to  me,  Linda,  I  might  have 
gone,  and  perhaps —  What  is  the  use  of  talking  such  stuff! 
I  never  would  have  married  Belle  Burton.  What  has  a  boy's 
fancy  at  twenty  to  do  with  a  man's  love  at  thirty?  There  is 
a  pair  of  brown  eyes  I  do  love,  and  would  like  to  make  the 
owner  my  wife.  Could  you  love  a  rough  miner  like  me, 
Linda?" 

He  took  both  her  small  hands  in  his,  and  with  a  look  of  in 
expressible  tenderness  seemed  to  penetrate  her  very  heart. 

"I  will  not  love  any  one  whom  I  have  no  right  to  love," 
said  she,  softly.  "So  long  as  Belle  Burton  is  awaiting  your 
return,  I  shall  not  be  the  cause  of  her  disappointment." 

"You  love  me,  then?"  asked  Walter,  passionately. 


7O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  scarcely  above  a  whisper,  "as  the 
noblest,  best  friend  I  ever  had,"  and  despite  her  great  effort  at 
self-command,  her  voice  was  tremulous  and  strange. 

"  But  I  cannot  be  only  a  friend  to  you,  Linda.  I  must  be 
more,"  and  Walter's  soft  black  eyes  pleaded  more  eloquently 
than  words. 

"Come  here,  Linda,"  called  Nellie  from  the  kitchen;  "I 
will  give  you  your  first  lesson  in  cooking,  which  I  have  prom 
ised  so  long.  Sofie,  poor  soul,  has  such  a  headache  that  she 
was  obliged  to  lie  down." 

Linda  went  instantly,  to  avoid  further  conversation  on  a  sub 
ject  that  pained  while  it  pleased.  She  would  gladly  have 
given  her  whole,  loving  heart  to  that  noble,  good  man,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Belle  Burton.  Fortunate  Belle,  to  hold  him  in 
such  thraldom.  Fortunate  Linda,  to  know  he  loved  her.  Such 
thoughts  went  constantly  flashing  through  her  brain,  and  the 
first  lesson  in  cooking  proved  a  sad  failure. 

Nellie  asked  her  how  she  had  done  certain  things,  after  hav 
ing  taken  great  pains  to  instruct  her.  She  stammered  woefully, 
and  finally  said : 

"  I  really  have  forgotten.  You  will  have  to  show  me  again, 
I  am  such  a  dull  scholar." 

Nellie's  merriment  over  Linda's  stupidity  brought  Walter  to 
the  kitchen.  He  seemed  also  greatly  amused  at  her  incapacity 
for  cooking,  much  to  Nellie's  surprise,  for  he  was  a  great  ad 
mirer  of  fine  housewifery.  But  Nellie  could  not  dream  of  the 
distracting  elements  in  Linda's  brain  that  would  not  be  over 
come  by  mashed  potatoes  or  macaroni. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  ?I 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

ROBBERY. 

peace  of  the  village  had  been  undisturbed  for  a  long 
time  by  acts  of  violence.  Crime  seemed  on  the  decrease. 
Still,  an  occasional  outrage  was  added  to  the  long  list. 
The  last,  though  insignificant  in  itself,  was  so  bold  in  its  per 
petration  that  it  caused  the  wildest  excitement.  No  citizen 
could  feel  safe  a  mile  from  the  town,  if  such  things  were  per 
mitted  to  go  unpunished. 

When  Mr.  Gray  came  home,  he  repeated  the  circumstance 
as  it  had  been  told  by  the  excited  teamster  on  his  arrival  in 
Grass  Valley. 

The  man  had  been  robbed,  in  Rattlesnake  Canon,  of  five 
hundred  dollars  and  his  watch.  He  said  a  young  man,  with  a 
shot-gun  and  a  hunting-coat  thrown  over  his  shoulders,  with  the 
most  perfect  nonchalance,  and  without  any  effort  at  disguise, 
came  out  of  the  bushes,  and  pointing  the  gun  at  him,  demanded 
his  money  and  watch.  Being  unarmed,  and  thus  menaced,  he 
surrendered  them ;  and  the  young  fellow  walked  off  as  coolly  as 
if  nothing  had  happened. 

"It  was  the  audacity  of  the  thing,"  continued  Mr.  Gray, 
"as  much  as  the  loss,  that  exasperated  the  ire  of  the  teamster; 
and  he  swears  he  will  remain  in  the  neighborhood  until  he  finds 
the  thief." 

"It  is  no  wonder  the  poor  fellow  is  furious,"  said  Linda, 
indignantly.  "But  who  could  be  so  unprincipled  as  to  rob  a 
poor,  hard-working  teamster  ?  ' ' 

"  So  unprincipled  ?  "  asked  George.  "  Why,  some  of  those 
fellows  would  rob  their  mothers." 


72  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  By  the  way,  has  that  other  stage-robber  ever  been  caught  ?  " 
asked  Nellie. 

"  No,  I  believe  not,"  answered  George.  "  One,  as  you  know, 
turned  State's  evidence,  and  two  were  arrested  on  his  statement. 
The  other  has  escaped  all  search. ' ' 

"  I  do  hope  the  teamster  will  find  the  man  who  robbed  him," 
said  Linda,  thoughtlessly,  as  we  all  often  hope  for  things  we  do 
not  want  when  they  come.  And  George  took  up  the  refrain 
quite  naturally,  saying  : 

"  I  hope  so.  He  should  be  made  an  example,  for  the  safety 
of  others." 

"  I  pity  the  examples,"  said  the  kind-hearted  Nellie. 

"They  are  unworthy  your  sympathy,"  chimed  in  Walter,  as 
if  suddenly  awakened  from  a  dream.  "If  men  will  commit 
outrages  and  violences,  they  must  be  punished,  to  stop  their 
own  bad  career,  and  intimidate  those  who  would  follow  in 
their  footsteps.  Laws  are  the  result  of  civilization,  and  are 
for  the  protection  of  mankind.  Without  them,  we  would  soon 
return  to  the  feudal  times,  when  might  made  right,  and  power 
was  law." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  capital  punishment?  "  asked  Linda. 

"  No.  I  do  not  think  any  man  should  die  to  enforce  laws. 
There  are  other  punishments  —  imprisonment  for  life,  or 
banishment  from  home  and  friends  —  more  terrible  to  sensitive 
natures ;  yet  they  have  then  a  hope  of  something,  however  re 
mote  or  indefinite." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Linda.  "Still,  as  Mr. 
Gray  remarked,  there  must  be  examples  for  the  benefit  of  the 
world  at  large.  Even  Renan  admitted  Christ  was  the  only 
perfect  man  that  ever  lived,  yet  He  was  crucified." 

"You  blood-thirsty  little  woman,"  said  George,  in  astonish 
ment.  "  Would  you  have  all  offenders,  even  though  they  were 
as  guiltless  as  your  Saviour,  punished  to  the  extreme?  " 


FREE    PRISONERS.  73 

"  I  do  not  believe  a  guiltless  man  suffers  as  much  from  pun 
ishment  as  one  who  is  guilty,  for  he  has  no  prickings  of  con 
science  to  add  to  the  bodily  suffering,"  interposed  Nellie. 

"I  should  think  the  prickings  of  conscience  would  very 
effectually  deaden  the  bodily  agony,"  argued  Linda.  "To  be 
ignominiously  punished  for  what  one  has  never  done,  must  be 
fearful;  but  to  meet  with  punishment  for  a  perpetrated  crime 
must  bring  with  it  a  sense  of  just  retribution  that  would  make 
it  more  endurable." 

"  You  talk  as  earnestly  as  if  you  really  were  experienced  in 
crime,  Miss  Linda,"  said  Walter,  amused  at  her  earnestness. 

"  I  think  we  are,"  she  answered,  decidedly.  "  It  would  be 
impossible  to  live  long  here  and  not  know  something  of  crime. 
We  are  unlike  the  women  of  old  countries,  who  read  of  crimes 
in  the  newspapers,  with  doubt  as  to  the  veracity  of  three-fourths 
of  the  story.  We  are  brought  in  closer  contact  with  it.  We 
know  the  victims  of  crime,  and  men  who  have  escaped  the  vigi 
lance  of  the  law,  although  their  lives  are  chapter  after  chapter 
of  blood  and  violence.  Crime  is  to  us  no  romance  —  thrilling 
in  narrative,  but  a  matter  of  oblivion  in  a  week.  We  have  in 
it  the  real  tragedies  of  life.  How  can  we  be  otherwise  than 
conversant  with  it?  " 

"It  is  true,  pioneer  women  of  all  countries  see  the  darkest 
side  of  life.  Every  new  colony  is  the  rendezvous  of  bandits 
and  outlaws  —  those  who  flee  from  punishment,  and  those 
whose  punishments  have  been  followed  by  crimes  ad  infinitum  ; 
but  they  fight  and  murder  until  the  desperadoes  are  killed  off, 
and  the  peaceful  and  industrious  make  thriving  countries  of 
their  new  homes,"  replied  Walter.  "Take  the  penal  colo 
nies  of  England,  for  example.  Felons,  whose  deeds  did  not 
warrant  capital  punishment,  were  exported,  because  the  govern 
ment  could  not  be  burdened  with  their  support.  The  desper- 
7 


74  FREE    PRISONERS. 

ate  exhausted  themselves,  but  three-fourths  settled  down  to 
industry  and  honesty.  Although  the  original  blood  of  rebellion 
boils  over  occasionally,  and  ends  in  deeds  of  crime,  those  colo 
nies  are  as  respectable  in  deportment  and  government  as  any 
new  colonies.  Look  at  our  own  California,  with  its  aristocratic 
landed  natives.  Most  of  their  forefathers  were  criminals  driven 
from  Mexico.  In  the  fertile  valleys  of  California  they  found 
no  resources  for  crime.  Instead,  there  was  ample  reward  for 
light  labor,  and  they  became  honest  men.  Their  families  know 
nothing  of  the  stained  past,  and  history  will  forget  it." 

"  You  are  right,  Walter,"  said  Nellie.  "  It  is  the  first  lesson 
we  learn  from  sacred  history.  Adam  and  Eve  were  cast  from 
heaven  for  breaking  the  Divine  laws.  God  did  not  hang  them 
to  the  tree  from  which  they  ate  the  forbidden  fruit,  but  sent 
them  from  His  presence.  If  this  beautiful  earth  was  first  in 
habited  by  outcasts,  even  from  Paradise,  why  should  not  the 
deserted  islands  in  the  remotest  seas,  teeming  with  vegetable 
life  and  lavish  with  nature's  stores,  be  brought  into  use  as  homes 
for  the  wretched,  steeped  in  crime,  in  our  own  land." 

"Mrs.  Gray  speaks  of  outcasts  from  heaven,  and  we  are 
always  taught  to  prepare  for  heaven,  yet  how  do  we  know 
there  is  such  a  place  ?  ' '  asked  Linda. 

"We  do  not  know,"  answered  Walter,  "but  it  has  come 
to  us  as  an  undying  tradition  from  those  who  have  been  there. 
Adam  and  Eve  must  have  fallen  from  some  perfect  condition 
of  happiness,  and  told  their  children,  and,  with  all  the  terror 
of  their  fearful  fall,  taught  the  result  of  sin,  and  made  heaven 
and  hell  from  their  own  lives.  It  is  generally  supposed  that 
this  world  of  ours  was  in  a  state  of  chaos  not  many  thousand 
years  ago ;  but  even  so,  it  must  have  been,  as  it  now  is,  a  small 
world  in  the  firmament,  performing  its  revolutions  in  harmony 
with  the  infinitude  of  worlds.  What  is  in  the  many  greater 


FREE    PRISONERS.  75 

worlds  about  us,  we  cannot  tell.  Astronomical  calculations 
make  them  uninhabitable  from  excessive  heat  or  cold;  but 
we  cannot  imagine  the  conditions  of  nature  that  might  fit 
beings  for  their  habitation. 

"It  evidently  became  necessary  to  people  and  bring  into 
use  our  world,  and,  the  story  is,  by  those  unworthy  of  Paradise ; 
and  they  left  their  traditions,  which  became  history,  as  every 
nation  in  the  wide  world  has  done  since.  History  speaks  to  us 
so  much  in  metaphor,  every  brain  must  be  its  own  interpreter, 
according  to  its  understanding.  For  instance,  the  old  super 
stition  of  walking  with  God  and  talking  to  Him,  is  entirely 
figurative.  God's  voice  speaks  to  us,  as  it  did  to  the  ancients, 
in  every  breath  of  nature,  but  mostly  through  man,  nature's 
noblest  work.  Nature  is  God's  direct  work,  His  very  breath, 
and  so  perfect,  so  reliable,  that  we  believe  in  her.  If  the  .labor 
is  so  absolute,  so  munificent,  why  not  bow  to  the  Laborer  ?  Why 
not  ?  We  must.  We  are  mere  spokes  in  the  great  wheel  of 
life,  and  must  turn  with  every  revolution.  And  it  is  a  most 
unpleasant  fact,  that  we  are  of  so  little  importance,  in  the  great 
machinery  of  life,  that  we  can  be  dispensed  with,  and  leave  no 
vacuum. 

"Every  life  history  finds  a  parallel  in  ancient  tradition ;  for 
instance,  we  are  all  like  the  wandering  Israelites,  with  a  cloud 
of  uncertainty  ever  before  us,  patiently  plodding  on,  searching 
and  prying  into  the  veiled  future  for  a  single  glimpse  of  heaven 
and  happiness,  and  after  all  dying  with  the  misty  veil  never 
lifted.  This  life  is  a  training-school  for  something  higher :  it 
is  a  warfare  with  shadows.  Nothing  is  real,  because  nothing  is 
sure.  We  are  serving  an  apprenticeship  for  something,  because 
nature  wastes  nothing." 

"But  nature  is  sometimes  defective,"  suggested  George. 

"Never  without  a  cause,"  answered  Walter,  emphatically. 


76  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"We  are  too  apt  to  combine  the  artificial  with  the  natural, 
and  attribute  the  defects  to  nature.  We  cut  down  forests,  and 
future  generations  will  abuse  nature  for  her  deserts.  Nature  is 
revengeful  and  exacting ;  when  we  abuse  her,  she  cries  back. ' ' 

"Don't  stop,  Walter.  I  am  just  getting  interested,"  said 
Nellie. 

"You  would  make  a  first-class  preacher  to  start  a  new 
school,"  suggested  George. 

"All  right;  when  I  get  too  lazy  to  work  for  a  living  I  will 
go  to  preaching,"  answered  Walter. 

It  was  late  when  Walter  took  Linda  home  through  the  mud 
and  the  rain.  Fortunately,  the  distance  was  short,  for  there 
was  no  spare  room  at  the  cottage.  As  he  bade  her  good-night, 
he  said,  earnestly:  "Think  over  what  I  asked  you  to-day, 
Linda,  and  tell  me  soon,  for  I  shall  be  anxious." 

"  My  good  friend,  when  you  can  prove  to  me  that  Belle  Bur 
ton  has  wholly  released  you,  and  is  not  awaiting  your  return  to 
marry  her,  you  can  ask  me  the  question  of  to-day  over  again. 
Good-night." 

A  slight  pressure  of  the  little  hand,  and  the  door  closed  be 
tween  Walter  and  his  angel. 

"Nellie  was  right,"  he 'soliloquized.  "The  first  time  she 
saw  her  she  said  she  was  an  angel.  Women  have  much  quicker 
perceptions  than  men.  They  comprehend  by  intuition  what 
men  stop  to  consider  and  prove.  I  believe  I  have  been  a  fool 
all  these  years,  and  am  just  getting  sensible.  It  may  be  exactly 
the  reverse,  for  I  am  in  love,  et  cela,  on  dit,  always  makes  a 
fool  of  a  man.  I  certainly  would  never  go,  for  practical  phi 
losophy,  *to  a  man  in  love. 

"What  of  the  night-winds  moaning  through  the  tall  trees 
and  the  pelting  rain  ?  They  go  on,  notwithstanding  my  heart 


FREE    PRISONERS.  77 

is  as  light  as  noonday,  and  the  black  heavens,  to  my  fancy,  are 
illuminated  by  two  bright,  burning  stars.  Ah,  Linda,  your 
beautiful  brown  eyes,  so  soft  and  bright,  yet  so  firm  and  true, 
are  radiant  jewels  in  my  heart.  I  believe  I  am  a  fool !  I 
wonder  if  every  man  makes  such  a  simpleton  of  himself  when 
he  is  in  love.  It  is  very  pleasant  idiocy,  Walter,  my  boy.  I 
guess  you  are  willing  to  be  a  fool  of  that  sort  all  your  life. 
She  wants  proofs  from  Belle.  I  will  write  to-night,  and  to 
morrow's  mail  will  meet  the  steamer.  But,  no.  I  would  write 
too  earnestly.  I  once  knew  a  woman  to  swear  to  what  she  saw 
through  an  adobe  wall  three  feet  thick.  And  as  for  men's 
hearts,  why,  their  contents  can  be  delivered  printed  at  a  mo 
ment's  notice.  If  Belle  Burton  should  mistrust  that  I  loved  a 
pretty  girl  with  brown  eyes,  she  would  swear  we  were  engaged 
before  we  were  born.  I  will  wait  until  I  can  write  a  quiet, 
friendly  letter,  and  tell  her.  I  have  given  up  all  idea  of  going 
East,  and  hope  soon  to  hear  of  her  marriage  with  some  splendid 
fellow;  that  I  shall  positively  remain  an  old  bachelor,  for  the 
most  veritable  Hebe  alive  could  not  inspire  me  with  the 
tender  passion.  If  I  should  say  that,  she  would  surely  think  I 
was  in  love.  Oh,  woman  !  woman  !  you  are  as  variable  as 
the  kaleidoscope.  When  one  fancies  he  has  a  right  square, 
honest  view  of  your  character,  you  present  an  entirely  different 
picture.  I  can  no  more  comprehend  you  than  the  infinity  of 
the  universe ;  but,  like  all  Christians,  suppose  the  best  way  is 
to  shut  my  eyes  to  facts,  and  take  my  chances." 
7* 


7«  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

A   MODERN   AGRIPPINA. 

THE  next  day  Linda  did  not  visit  the  cottage  as  usual,  but 
busied  herself  quietly  at  home.  Toward  evening,  Nellie 
came  to  inquire  if  she  was  ill,  or  anything  unusual  had  hap 
pened.  She  gave  a  plausible  reason  for  absenting  herself,  and 
when  Nellie  invited  her  and  Ben  to  dine  with  them  the  next 
day,  she  made  all  manner  of  excuses,  which  were  readily  ex 
plained  away ;  and  it  was  finally  arranged,  if  Ben  had  no  other 
engagement,  they  would  accept,  although  Linda  felt  great 
delicacy  in  going,  as  formerly,  where  she  was  sure  to  meet 
Walter. 

Before  Ben's  arrival  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Wetherell  entered 
Linda's  room  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  from  Mr.  Warren,  Linda.  He  will  be  here 
to-morrow  or  next  day.  You  know  I  have  promised  you  should 
marry  him  on  your  eighteenth  birthday,  three  months  from  to 
day.  He  is  coming  to  make  arrangements  concerning  your 
future  home  in  Sacramento.  It  is  my  command  that  you  re 
ceive  him  in  a  manner  befitting  my  daughter  and  the  Major's 
future  wife.  He  has  been  appointed  major  on  the  Governor's 
staff,  and  you  must  respect  his  title." 

"It  is  useless  wasting  words,  mother.  I  can  only  tell  you 
once  more,  I  will  never  marry  Mr.  Warren." 

"I  suppose  you  want  to  marry  that  poor  fellow,  Walter 
French,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell,  sarcastically.  "He  is  a  good- 
looking  man,  and  in  all  probability  will  give  his  wife  enough 
to  eat,  and  live  after  the  manner  of  the  Grays,  in  demi-poverty, 
—  love  in  a  cottage  style." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  79 

"Yes.  If  I  can  ever  be  the  wife  of  a  man  fond  and  true  as 
George  Gray,  and  have  a  home  full  of  contentment  and  happi 
ness  as  his,  simple  though  it  be,  I  will  be  happy  as  a  queen." 

"Of  course,  you  picture  Walter  French  lord  of  this  humble 
paradise  of  yours,"  said.  Mrs.  Wetherell,  bitterly. 

"  I  picture  a  man  I  could  love,  and  no  amount  of  gold  could 
replace  to  me  the  want  of  affection  in  a  home,"  answered  Linda, 
earnestly. 

"Go  on,  wilful  girl;  love  Walter  French;  adore  him  if 
you  choose ;  you  shall  never  marry  him.  I  told  you  long  ago 
my  will  is  of  iron.  Would  that  I  were  another  Agrippina,  that 
I  might  convert  my  son  into  another  Nero,  and  my  daughter, 
a  second  self —  anything  whereby  I  could  see  those  who  oppose 
me  writhe  in  mortal  anguish.  Girl,  I  am  a  fiend  when  enraged. 
Turn  pale,  and  tremble,  too  !  I  am  to  be  feared.  I  want 
money.  I  came  to  this  miserable  country  for  money,  and  will 
sacrifice  you  for  gold.  I  must  have  it,  by  fair  means  or  by  foul. 
I  am  wretched  !  wretched  !  I  must  have  money  to  make  me 
free  to  go  — ' ' 

"To  the  devil !  "  interrupted  Ben.  "I  have  overheard  every 
word  of  this  conversation.  You  said  well  —  you  are  a  fiend, 
woman  !  You  may  find  another  in  your  son,  if  you  provoke 
him  too  much.  You  shall  never  compel  Linda  to  marry  that 
old  fool." 

"  Dear  Ben,  do  not  talk  so,"  pleaded  Linda. 

"I  am  sorry  our  mother  compelled  me  to  use  such  language 
in  your  presence,"  said  Ben,  bitterly.  "But  she  outraged  all 
claims  of  maternity.  You  need  not  marry  that  old  Warren, 
Linda.  I  will  put  him  over  the  Styx  first." 

"There  will  be  no  need  of  bloodshed.  I  will  never  marry 
him,"  said  Linda,  decidedly. 

"  I  will  leave  you,  amiable  children,  to  discuss  your  obedient 


8O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

inclinations."  Mrs.  Wetherell  left  the  room  trembling  with 
rage,  her  face  was  livid  as  she  gasped  for  breath.  She  had  so 
long  given  way  to  her  passionate  temper  when  anything  extraor 
dinary  happened  to  enrage  her,  she  almost  went  into  spasms. 

"Poor  Linda  !  "  said  Ben,  as  they  were  left  alone;  "  I  am 
sorry  for  you  in  this  home.  It  is  a  perfect  mystery  to  me  that 
a  mother  and  daughter  can  be  such  perfect  contrasts  in  disposi 
tion  and  feelings.  How  do  you  manage  to  live  with  her?  " 

"  Oh,  very  well.  Mother  says  little  to  me.  She  lets  me  do 
just  as  I  choose,  so  I  pass  most  of  my  time  with  Mrs.  Gray.  I 
am  always  happy  there." 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  attraction  is  not  altogether  Mrs. 
Gray,"  said  Ben,  jokingly.  "  How  is  it,  my  sweet  sister  ?  " 

"  I  confess  I  love  them  all,  they  are  such  good  people." 

"We  all  like  contrasts,  and  I  know  of  no  more  striking  one 
than  that  family  and  ours,"  said  Ben. 

"True.  I  wish  we  were  more  like  them.  I  would  even  be 
contented,  if  you  and  I  could  be  together  more. ' ' 

"You  shall  have  me  all  day  to-morrow.  I  have  made  ar 
rangements  with  the  boys  to  do  without  me  one  day,  in  order 
to  fulfil  the  promise  made  long  ago  to  take  you  over  the  moun 
tains  ;  but  then  you  must  not  expect  me  next  Sunday." 

"  I  shall  be  so  delighted  to  have  you  with  me  all  day  to-mor 
row.  We  will  not  borrow  trouble  about  next  Sunday ;  but  you 
know  that  disagreeable  old  Mr.  Warren  is  coming  here  to 
remain  a  week.  What  will  I  do  without  you  all  that  time?  " 

"You  need  not  be  in  the  least  concerned  about  his  coming. 
A  note  will  reach  me  in  a  short  time ;  and  if  you  should  be  in 
need  of  friends  before  I  could  get  to  you,  go  to  the  Grays. 
They  will  be  happy  in  serving  you." 

"  Let  me  live  with  you,  Ben.  Can  I  not  be  of  some  service 
to  you  ?  "  asked  Linda,  like  a  coaxing  child. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  8l 

"You  go  with  me?"  Ben  laughed  heartily  at  the  idea. 
"You  could  not  live  in  a  log  cabin,  Linda.  A  delicately 
reared  New  York  boarding-school  Miss  housekeeper  for  her 
brother,  in  a  log  cabin  with  two  rooms !  That  would  be  a 
pretty  picture  to  send  back  to  your  friends." 

"You  do  not  know  what  I  can  do  until  you  try  me.  I  could 
endure  a  great  many  hardships  to  be  with  you,"  said  Linda, 
modestly. 

"You  do  not  know  what  hardships  are,"  said  Ben,  kindly. 
"Besides,  if  you  knew  what  a  bad,  rough  fellow  I  am,  you 
would  not  be  so  fond  of  me." 

"  Yes,  I  would  love  you  just  the  same.  If  you  are  rough  and 
bad,  as  you  say,  you  need  some  one  all  the  more  to  love  and 
care  for  you." 

"I  wish  we  had  never  been  parted,  Linda.  I  would  not 
have  become  such  a  rough  miner  as  I  am  now,  and  perhaps  been 
more  capable  of  taking  care  of  you  as  you  deserve  and  need." 

"  It  is  not  too  late,  Ben.  Divine  laws  supply  all  our  necessi 
ties." 

"  Do  not  begin  preaching,  or  I  will  leave,"  said  Ben,  good- 
naturedly. 

"  You  naughty  boy,  you  need  preaching  to  every  day." 

"  Well,  we  will  postpone  it  for  the  present,  and  make  arrange 
ments  for  to-morrow.  I  am  wholly  at  your  command,  and  the 
day  shall  be  spent  according  to  your  dictation." 

"Then  let  us  go  over  the  mountains  on  horseback,"  decided 
Linda,  at  once. 

"That  will  suit  me  splendidly.  But  I  must  leave  you  now, 
and  go  up  town  on  some  business,  and  will  meet  you  in  a  little 
while  at  Mr.  Gray's.  Until  then,  good-by." 

F 


82  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

GRAND    PATHWAYS   TO   A   CELL. 

"  Die  Lufte  weh'n  so  scliaurig, 
Wir  ziehen  dahin  so  traurig, 
Nach  ungewissem  Ziel.'' 

nnHOSE  who  have  never  ridden  among  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Mountains  can  form  but  a  faint  idea  of  the  sublime  grand 
eur  of  their  loneliness.  Winding  in  and  out  their  pre 
cipitous  sides,  one  is  deep  down  in  a  great  canon  or  gorge, 
where  rushing  waters  go  dancing  gleefully,  or  plunging  over 
great  boulders,  with  ferns  and  drooping  grasses  dipping  here 
and  there  in  the  cool  waters ;  where  nothing  is  heard  but  the 
busy  hum  of  nature,  and  the  tramp  of  horses'  feet  or  sound  of 
human  voice  seems  hollow  and  out  of  place.  Then,  as  if  as 
cending  Nature's  spiral  stairway,  one  is  thousands  of  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  rise  peak 
after  peak  and  range  after  range  of  forest  mountains,  whose 
tall  pines  seem  mere  shrubs  in  the  distance.  So  one  can  jour 
ney  on  over  the  uneven  roads  for  days,  seldom  finding  a  single 
habitation,  and  at  evening  look  back  over  the  day's  journey 
and  see  only  a  purple  haze  veiling  the  great  mountains  of  one's 
admiration  —  an  indistinct  outline,  a  mist,  as  the  day's  pleas 
ure  or  unhappiness  is  veiled  in  the  past  —  a  dream  once  realized. 
These  roads  were  originally  Indian  trails,  where  the  children 
of  the  forest  went  lazily,  day  after  day,  with  their  soft,  catlike 
tread  in  their  moccasins,  but  leaving  "footprints  in  the  sands 
of  time,"  and  unknowingly  engineering  with  great  nicety  roads 
and  highways  for  their  more  learned  pale-faced  brethren.  The 
poor  Indians  will  soon  be  among  the  things  of  the  past.  Cul- 


FREE    PRISONERS.  83 

tivation  kills  them ;  civilization  annihilates  them.  Those  who 
have  been  kindly  taken  into  families  and  cared  for,  droop  and 
die  young ;  while  those  near  villages  work  only  pour  boire. 
They  all  take  with  wonderful  tenacity  to  alcohol,  and  will  work 
for  that  when  for  nothing  else,  and  it  is  rapidly  and  surely 
exterminating  them. 

Ben  and  Linda  had  taken  a  long  ride.  The  horses  were 
walking  leisurely.  The  riders  were  lost  in  thought,  when  Ben 
broke  the  stillness  by  saying : 

"  Let  us  turn  to  the  right.  That  is  a  shorter  route  to  Ne 
vada,  and  we  can  return  by  the  other  road." 

"  That  would  be  delightful !  "  exclaimed  Linda.  "  I  think 
Nevada  is  such  a  pretty  place. ' ' 

"I  do  not,"  answered  Ben,  emphatically.  "I  never  did 
fancy  it." 

Urging  his  horse  on  more  rapidly,  they  continued  their  ride 
in  silence.  But  long  after,  Linda  wondered  what  strange  pre 
monition  had  caused  him  to  speak  of  Nevada  with  so  much 
bitterness. 

They  had  ridden  through  Nevada,  and  were  on  the  way  to 
Grass  Valley,  when  they  were  passed  by  two  horsemen. 

"  One  of  those  men  looked  very  hard  at  us,  Ben.  Who  are 
they?"  asked  Linda. 

"  I  did  not  know  either  of  them."  Ben  turned  in  his  saddle 
as  he  spoke,  for  horses'  hoofs  were  heard  rapidly  overtaking 
them. 

The  same  men  came  dashing  up,  one  on  either  side  of  Ben, 
each  with  a  pistol  in  hand  : 

"If  you  have  any  arms,  sir,  give  them  up,  and  surrender 
yourself  our  prisoner,"  demanded  one.  Ben  turned  pale,  but 
asked  firmly : 

"  By  what  authority  am  I  to  yield  myself  your  prisoner?  " 


84  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"lam  the  sheriff,"  answered  the  stranger.  "Here  is  the 
warrant  for  your  arrest.  Read  it." 

As  Ben  read,  the  color  came  back  to  his  face,  and  he  said 
politely : 

"  There  is  some  mistake  here,  sir.  I  know  nothing  about 
this  affair." 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  said  the  second  man,  insolently; 
and  to  the  sheriff,  "Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  a  thief  who  did 
know  his  own  business?"  Turning  again  to  Ben,  "Maybe 
I  can  tell  you  a  little  about  this  here  story  that  you  've  heard 
tell  of  before,  young  man." 

Linda  sat  like  one  in  a  trance,  not  having  power  to  speak. 
She  heard  all  they  said ;  saw  Ben  give  up  his  pistol  and  surren 
der  himself  to  their  authority.  Then  he  turned  to  her,  and 
with  trembling  voice  addressed  the  strangers : 

"Gentlemen,  consider  my  sister." 

That  aroused  her,  and  she  exclaimed : 

"Never  mind  me.     I  will  go  where  he  goes." 

"  That  is  impossible,  Linda,"  said  Ben,  decidedly;  and  turn 
ing  to  the  sheriff,  "  In  the  name  of  God  and  humanity,  do  not 
tell  her  where  I  am  going. ' ' 

To  comfort  Linda,  he  added  :  "  I  am  summoned  to  appear  at 
court.  The  case  being  urgent,  in  which  I  am  one  of  the  chief 
witneses,  they  have  taken  these  extreme  measures.  These 
gentlemen  will  accompany  us  until  we  are  near  Grass  Valley, 
then  you  must  go  home  alone  this  time,  little  sister." 

There  was  something  so  strangely  pathetic  in  his  voice, 
that  Linda's  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  she  looked  searchingly 
into  his  face,  and  said  pleadingly  : 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  deceiving  me,  Ben.  As  I  told  you 
yesterday,  I  can  endure  more  than  you  think.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  tell  me  the  truth." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  85 

"  I  really  do  not  know  any  more  to  tell  you  now,  but  will  write 
you  to-morrow  or  next  day,  and  the  sheriff  will  see  that  you  get 
the  letter." 

Linda  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  full  on  the  sheriff's  face,  and 
he  had  not  the  heart  to  deny  her  request,  as  she  asked,  softly, 
"Will  you?" 

"  Yes,  Miss,  I  will,"  he  answered,  with  a  respectful  bow. 

They  were  approaching  Grass  Valley,  when  he  said  quietly 
to  Ben,  "You  can  go  no  further." 

Ben  reined  in  his  horse,  and,  giving  his  hand  to  Linda, 
said  tenderly:  "  Good-by,  sweet  sister.  There  is  something 
altogether  wrong  about  this  affair ;  but  I  am  sure  it  will  come 
out  right.  Try  to  forget  it  and  be  as  happy  as  you  can." 

Linda  kissed  him  and  bade  him  good-by,  with  tears  stream 
ing  down  her  cheeks.  Slowly  she  went  on  her  way,  thinking : 
"There  is  more  in  this  than  Ben  would  tell  me.  How  can  I 
learn  the  particulars?  To-morrow's  paper  will  tell:  it  is  the 
revealer  of  everything  dreadful.  But,  surely,  Ben  has  done 
nothing  dreadful.  There  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere.  No 
matter  how  it  is ;  good  it  cannot  be  ;  but  if  it  is  bad,  or  even 
vile,  I  will  serve  my  brother  to  the  last.  I  wonder  where  they 
will  take  him.  Oh,  Ben,  if  I  could  only  have  gone  with  you ! 
How  can  I  wait  until  to-morrow  !  It  seems  a  century  off." 
8 


86  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER   XVI. 

"WAITING   FOR   THE   VERDICT." 

THE  longest  day  must  have  an  ending,  the  longest  night 
must  have  its  dawn,  and  yet  the  night  seemed  interminable 
to  Linda,  as  she  kept  her  solitary  vigil.  Not  one  thought 
of  sleep  came  to  her  mind  until  the  sun  was  peeping  over  the 
mountains,  then  from  weariness  she  slept  heavily. 

When  she  made  her  appearance  at  the  breakfast-table,  her 
father,  who  had  arrived  at  home  the  previous  evening,  after 
greeting  her,  asked:  "What  makes  you  look  so  pale,  Linda? 
Are  you  sick  ?  ' ' 

"No,  sir;  but  I  did  not  sleep  well." 

Mrs.  Wetherell  did  not  so  much  as  look  toward  her  daughter, 
and  not  another  word  was  spoken  during  that  morning  meal, 
excepting  the  necessary  demands  at  any  table. 

All  day  Linda  wandered  restlessly,  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
the  evening  paper,  and,  perhaps,  a  letter  from  Ben. 

Evening  came  at  last,  and  the  stage  brought  the  irrepressible 
Major  Warren  to  the  door.  Linda  watched  him,  as  he  came 
up  the  walk  with  his  quick  step  and  pompous  bearing,  and 
saw  her  mother  meet  him  with  charming  grace  and  earnest 
welcome. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Wetherell,  how  are  you?  and  how  is  my  fair 
future  bride?"  asked  the  Major,  all  in  one  breath. 

"I  am  in  excellent  health,  my  dear  Major,  and  your  future 
bride—"  . 

"  Is  as  charming  as  ever,"  interrupted  the  Major. 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  charming  girl,  if  she  is  mine,  or  rather  yours," 
said  Mrs.  Wetherell,  coquettishly.  "  She  has  finally  consented 


FREE    PRISONERS.  87 

to  your  marriage  on  her  eighteenth  birthday,  which  will  be  in 
a  little  less  than  three  months,  as  you  urged  so  strongly  in  your 
last  letter  it  should  take  place  speedily." 

"  My  dear  madam,  I  assure  you  I  will  be  the  happiest  man  in 
the  world,"  said  the  Major,  jubilantly. 

"You  must  not  expect  too  much,  for  she  is  a  thoroughly 
spoiled  child.  Still,  you  need  have  no  doubts.  I  assure  you 
she  loves  you  very  fondly,  and  is  delighted  with  her  approach 
ing  marriage  ;  only  some  girls  have  such  ridiculous  notions.  I 
fear,  to  all  appearances,  you  will  find  her  as  arbitrary  as  for 
merly." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Wetherell,  fear  nothing  on  my  account.  I 
am  a  persistent  man  ;  and,  as  long  as  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  marry  your  daughter,  I  will  have  her." 

"I  admire  your  force  of  character,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell, 
warmly.  "You  shall  have  my  daughter  with  pleasure.  You 
are  a  genuine  man,  one  after  my  own  heart.  Linda  will  be 
with  you  presently.  In  the  meantime,  I  will  leave  you  to  be 
entertained  by  the  Captain,  whom  I  see  coming.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  well  to  broach  the  subject  of  your  approaching  mar 
riage  to  him,  as  I  have  not  thought  it  prudent  to  speak  of  it 
until  all  your  arrangements  were  finally  completed." 

Although  Linda's  door  was  closed,  she  could  distinctly  hear 
every  word  that  was  spoken  in  the  adjoining  room.  The  effect 
of  that  conversation  can  better  be  imagined  than  described.  An 
insupportable  loathing  for  such  foulness  of  purpose  and  vile  hy 
pocrisy  took  possession  of  her,  and  she  vowed  again  that  death 
would  be  preferable  to  a  marriage  with  Major  Warren. 

She  held  in  her  hand  the  paper  for  which  she  had  so  anxiously 
waited,  but  the  arrival  of  Major  Warren  quite  drove  it  from  her 
mind.  Slowly  she  unfolded  it,  and  began  her  search  for  what 
might  solve  the  mystery  concerning  Ben.  Her  first  glance  dis- 


88  FREE    PRISONERS. 

covered  nothing,  and  thinking,  after  all,  she  had  been  uselessly 
alarmed,  began  reading  an  article  headed,  in  great  capital  let 
ters,  "The  teamster  identifies  the  man  who  robbed  him." 
Just  below  the  heading  her  eye  caught  the  sentence,  "Ben 
Wetherell  was  arrested  yesterday  by  the  sheriff  on  the  testimony 
of  the  teamster." 

The  paper  dropped  from  her  hands,  and  she  fell  back  in  her 
chair  perfectly  unconscious. 

The  family  was  seated  at  the  table,  and  dinner  served ;  still, 
Linda  did  not  make  her  appearance. 

"Bridget,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell  to  the  general  housemaid, 
"go  to  Miss  Linda's  room,  and  tell  her  we  are  at  dinner." 

Bridget  knocked  at  the  door,  but  receiving  no  answer,  opened 
it,  and  found  Linda  still  insensible.  In  her  horror  she  screamed 
loudly,  which  brought  the  party  from  the  table  into  the  room, 
and  also  aided  in  bringing  Linda  to  her  senses. 

The  Captain,  from  genuine  alarm  and  anxiety  for  Linda, 
went  for  a  physician.  On  his  arrival,  she  said  to  him : 

"  Doctor,  I  am  not  ill.  Nothing  ails  me  but  that,"  pointing 
to  the  paper.  "  But  please  let  me  remain  in  bed,  and  tell  father 
and  mother  I  must  have  perfect  quiet  and  rest." 

The  Doctor  readily  granted  her  request,  for  she  had  a  way 
of  asking  and  commanding  so  pleasantly,  it  was  almost  impos 
sible  to  tell  upon  whom  the  favor  was  conferred. 

Bridget  was  very  attentive,  and  when  Linda  refused  to  eat, 
said  in  her  rough  way : 

"  Remimber  Mr.  Ben,  Miss  Linda.  Sure  and  ye  can't  help 
'im  a  lyin'  here  on  ye're  back;  and  if  ye  won't  ate,  how  do  ye 
iver  expect  to  git  up  ?  " 

"You  are  righ,t,  Bridget;  I  must  eat  and  I  must  act,  and 
not  lie  here  repining." 

In  spite  of  her  good  resolutions,  the  tears  ran  down  her 


FREE    PRISONERS.  89 

cheeks.  Ben  had  been  her  great  hope,  and  now  that  he  was 
taken  from  her,  and  in  such  an  ignominious  way,  the  poor  girl 
felt  crushed  to  the  earth.  What  wounded  her  most  deeply  was 
the  manner  in  which  the  affair  had  been  commented  upon  in 
the  dining-room  immediately  after  she  had  recovered  her  self- 
possession. 

The  Captain  seemed  greatly  shocked,  but  relieved  himself 
of  all  responsibility  by  saying:  "I  did  my  duty  by  that  boy; 
but  he  was  an  imp  of  Satan  from  his  birth." 

The  mother  exclaimed  fiercely.  "A  thief!  an  outlaw,  my 
son!  I  have  no  son  !  Captain,  do  you  hear?  We  have  no 
son  !  To  us  he  is  dead.  Let  the  law  take  its  course." 

"You  are  right,  my  amiable  spouse;  we  should  never  have 
had  any  son,"  said  the  Captain,  earnestly.  "I  am  glad  you 
do  not  let  your  motherly  feelings  overcome  your  better  judg 
ment,  and  you  can  so  firmly  disown  your  son." 

To  Major  Warren  the  Captain's  words  and  manner  implied 
simply  what  was  spoken ;  but  to  Mrs.  Wetherell  they  were  of  other 
import,  and  her  face  grew  paler,  and  her  black  eyes  burned  with 
a  dangerous  light,  as  she  steadily  gazed  upon  the  speaker's  un 
conscious,  saintly  face,  like  a  tigress  ready  to  spring  upon  and 
annihilate  her  prey. 

Turning  to  the  Major,  she  said,  with  a  strange,  disappointed 
tone : 

"  I  suffer  for  you,  Major,  with  regard  to  Linda.  You  cannot 
think  of  uniting  your  most  honorable  position  with  that  of  one 
whose  brother  " — with  much  feeling —  "  is  an  outlaw." 

"  My  dear  madam,  you  misjudge  me,"  answered  the  Major, 
with  an  imperious  air.  "No  stain  upon  the  family  name  of 
the  woman  I  marry  can  reach  me.  Au  contraire,  madam,  I 
arn  more  anxious  than  ever  to  hasten  our  marriage.  I  feel  I 
am  performing  an  act  of  kindness  in  marrying  your  daughter, 


9O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

and  shall  fear  no  further  opposition  on  her  part,  knowing, 
as  she  must,  few  would  marry  her  under  the  present  circum 
stances.  ' ' 

"  You  are  your  noble  self  forever  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wetherell. 
"  I  shall  be  only  too  proud  to  welcome  you  to  my  heart,  instead 
of  him  who  is  gone,  but  whom  I  loved  tenderly  and  well." 

"Control  yourself,  dearv  madam,"  said  the  Major,  kindly, 
taking  her  hand.  "  I  pity  you  from  the  depths  of  my  heart." 

The  Captain,  who  had  been  sitting  quite  apart,  took  up  his 
gold-headed  cane  and  silently  left  the  room,  to  walk  up  town 
with  the  downcast  air  of  a  martyr,  and  call  forth  the  sympathy 
of  every  one  he  met. 

Major  Warren  led  Mrs.  Wetherell  into  the  parlor,  using  all 
his  eloquence  to  divert  her  mind  and  soothe  her  sorrow. 

She  had  hard  work  to  play  the  aggrieved  parent  to  perfection, 
for  her  joy  was  complete,  to  think  the  rich  old  Major  was  still 
to  be  her  son-in-law.  Her  only  grief  had  been  lest  he  would 
not  care  to  fulfil  his  marriage  contract  with  Linda. 

In  the  meantime  there  had  been  a  soft  tap  at  Linda's  door, 
and  Mrs.  Gray  had  entered  in  response  to  the  gentle  "Come 
in."  Her  sympathizing  heart  fully  comprehended  Linda's 
misfortune.  She  talked  freely,  without  wounding,  and  Linda 
felt  half  the  heavy  burden  was  gone,  in  the  friendly,  confident 
manner  she  could  talk  and  speculate  on  the  probabilities  and 
improbabilities  of  such  an  act  on  Ben's  part.  She  seemed  only 
to  think  of  him  in  his  trouble,  and  frequently  exclaimed : 
"  Pity  him,  Mrs.  Gray  !  1  knew  he  is  not  guilty." 

"'I  am  sure  not,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  earnestly  ;  "but  you 
are  the  one  I  pity  most.  Walter  and  George  both  wished  me 
to  say,  if  there  is  anything  in  the  world  they  can  do  for  you, 
you  are  to  call  upon  them  unhesitatingly.  They  will  be  only 
too  happy  in  serving  you." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  QI 

"How  good  and  kind  you  are,"  said  Linda,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  To-morrow  I 
hope  to  hear  from  Ben ;  then,  perhaps,  something  can  be  done. 
In  the  meantime  I  shall  remain  in  bed,  to  avoid  Mr.  Warren, 
who  arrived  last  night." 

That  evening  Nellie  took  her  usual  seat  at  George's  side,  to 
question  him  on  the  all-absorbing  topic  of  Linda's  trouble. 

"  George,  dear,  do  you  really  think  young  Wetherell  is  guilty 
of  that  outrageous  crime?" 

"It  is  hard  to  tell,  Nellie;  but  there  seems  little  doubt,  as 
the  teamster  has  so  positively  identified  him." 

"It  is  shocking !  I  never,  in  my  life,  felt  for  any  one  as  I 
do  for  Linda." 

"  She  is  a  noble  girl,  and  very  different  from  the  rest  of  the 
family,"  added  George. 

"  Yes,  dear  ;  and  she  is  so  cheerful  and  hopeful  in  her  trouble. 
Her  father  and  mother  deliberately  disowned  Ben  as  soon  as 
they  heard  of  this  affair ;  so  the  poor  child  has  no  sympathy  at 
home.  But,  then,  she  never  had  from  her  mother.  Oh,  George, 
I  think  it  would  break  my  heart,  if  I  could  not  think  of  my 
dear  mother  with  holy  reverence  and  love." 

"Yes,  darling;  it  is  a  great  source  of  happiness  to  recall 
those  who  are  near  and  dear  to  us  with  affection,  and  have  rea 
son  to  cherish  their  memory  when  they  are  gone.  You  know 
how  good  mother  always  was.  What  a  whole  soul  of  love  and 
tender  anxiety  she  bestowed  upon  us ;  and  her  thoughtful  care 
is  over  us  to-day  as  when  I  was  a  child." 

"We  have  much  to  be  thankful  for  in  our  family  love,  dear, 
especially  when  we  see  those  around  us  yearning  for  such  love. 
But  can  you  not  think  of  some  way  by  which  Ben  might  escape 
the  full  penaltv  of  the  law,  for  Linda's  sake?" 

"  No,  Nellie  ;  I  do  not  think  any  interference  would  save  him. 


92  FREE    PRISONERS. 

If  this  act  was  lightly  passed  over,  it  would  very  soon  be  re 
peated  ;  and  the  only  way  of  quelling  such  lawlessness  .is  in 
bringing  the  criminals  to  immediate  punishment." 

"  That  may  be  true,  George  ;  but  think  how  our  sweet  friend 
we  love  so  much  will  have  to  suffer.  You  have  no  idea  how  her 
poor  wounded  heart  is  bleeding  from  this  last  blow  of  family 
dishonor,  for  she  is  extremely  sensitive." 

"  Of  course,  it  is  a  great  sorrow  and  lasting  disgrace.  George, 
dear,"  said  Nellie,  timidly,  as  she  pressed  her  husband's  hand 
tighter  in  hers,  "  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  Walter  was  very 
fond  of  Linda?  " 

"No;  he  despises  the  whole  family  so  thoroughly,  he  would 
never  think  more  of  her  than  as  a  friend." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that;  and  I  have  been  very  much 
bothered  about  Belle  Burton,  for  I  really  think  Walter  loves 
Linda." 

"Well,  if  he  does,  I  hope  he  will  marry  her,  and  take  her 
entirely  away  from  the  rest  of  the  family." 

"  But  what  will  become  of  Belle?  " 

"  My  opinion  about  Belle  is  not  very  flattering,  Nellie.  She 
was  always  a  gay,  fashionable  woman  of  the  world,  who  made 
no  effort  to  find  Walter  until  about  a  year  ago.  The  truth  is, 
she  is  no  longer  young,  and  does  not  exactly  like  the  idea  of 
being  an  old  maid,  after  the  score  of  admirers  she  has  had. 
So  she  managed  to  open  a  correspondence  with  Walter,  in  hope 
of  renewing  their  old  relationship." 

"  Perhaps  you  do  not  quite  understand  the  case,"  said  Nellie, 
partly  convinced,  "but  of  the  same  opinion  still." 

"  I  would  be  sorry  to  misjudge  her.  It  certainly  would  be 
pleasanter  to  have  Walter  marry  Linda,  because  we  all  know 
her  and  Iqve  her ;  but  I  think  it  will  never  be,  especially  now — 
Walter  is  so  high-spirited,  and  thinks  so  much  of  family  honor. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  93 

Not  that  he  would  think  lebS  of  Linda,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  he 
would  ever  marry  into  such  a  family.  My  dear  little  wife," 
said  George,  fondly,  "you  are  always  worrying  over  some 
one's  troubles.  Especially,  if  there  is  the  least  chance  of 
their  getting  married,  you  waste  an  immense  deal  of  sym 
pathy  on  them.  One  would  think  you  had  been  shipwrecked 
on  the  shoals  and  reefs  of  matrimony,  —  that  uncertain  sea, 
so  difficult  to  navigate,  —  and  were  trying  to  pilot  others  more 
safely." 

"George,  dear,  how  can  you  talk  so?"  and  the  little  wife 
nestled  closer  to  her  husband.  "  It  seems  a  sin  for  happy 
people  to  joke  over  others'  misfortunes.  You  have  always  been 
such  a  good  darling,  we  could  not  well  be  otherwise  than 
happy. ' ' 

"  Indeed  !  is  that  it  ?  "  laughed  George.  "I  always  thought 
it  was  because  you  were  so  good." 

"  No,  George.  There  must  be  a  good  husband  where  there 
is  a  cheerful,  happy  wife  and  mother. ' ' 

"  Exceptio  probat  regulam.  In  fact,  there  are  exceptions  to 
all  rules,  Nellie." 

"There  is  no  exception  to  this  rule.  A  good  woman  may 
drag  through  necessary  duties,  as  the  wife  of  an  unloving,  un 
congenial  husband,  with  apparent  cheerfulness  and  content 
ment,  but  in  time  her  smile  becomes  forced,  her  eyes  lack  the 
fire  of  life,  her  cheeks  lose  their  rosy  tint,  her  step  its  elasticity; 
in  fact,  her  whole  appearance  becomes  a  settled  melancholy, 
when  the  labor  of  life  goes  on  without  the  friendly  companion 
ship  of  an  appreciative  husband.  Even  her  children's  prattle 
grates  upon  her  nerves,  and  their  merry  laughter  drops  heavily 
into  her  hollow  heart,  and  each  day  grows  longer  and  wearier 
as  she  plods  on  and  on.  But  take  me  for  an  example  of  my 
rule.  I  am  one  who  does  the  best  she  can,  and  although  fa- 


94  FREE    PRISONEKS. 

from  perfect,  expects  her  husband's  kind  smile  and  pleasant 
evening  chat  as  the  reward  of  the  day's  labor;  while  he,  dear 
soul,  will  not  let  her  sew  on  the  children's  aprons  after  dark, 
but  rather  play  a  game  of  chess  and  beat  her  to  death ;  and 
thinks  when  his  day's  labor  ends  her's  should.  Such  a  hus 
band  will  always  have  a  good  wife,  because  labor  for  those  we 
love,  and  who  love  us,  is  one  of  the  few  pleasures  that  engender 
real  peace  and  contentment." 

"  Is  that  your  wise  conclusion,  after  years  of  mature  delibera 
tion?"  asked  George,  quite  amused  at  her  earnestness  over 
what  she  professed  never  to  have  experienced.  He  continued, 
more  seriously,  "If  you  are  convinced  of  your  opinions,  and 
•I  of  mine,  my  dear  little  woman,  we  must  be  a  wonderfully 
good  couple." 

"Not  so  good,  dear,  but  what  we  might  be  better;  but  we 
do  our  duty  as  well  as  we  know  how,  and  that  makes  life  easy. 
Besides,  when  troubles  come,  we  explain  them  away,  kiss  and 
make  up,  and  start  on  again,  just  the  same.  So  our  mole-hills 
never  become  mountains  —  they  are  only  mole-hills,  that  make 
us  laugh,  after  we  are  past  them,  that  they  ever  should  have 
been  in  our  way." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

DESPERATE    COMPANY. 


next  morning,  when  the  first  rays  of  dawn  were  break 
ing  over  the  horizon,  Linda  arose,  dressed  herself  quietly, 
and  started  out  into  the  uncertain  light.     The  roads  were 
muddy,  and  the  sticky  clay,  peculiar  to  that  mountainous  re 
gion,  made  walking  very  fatiguing.     She  hurried  through  the 


FREE    PRISONERS.  95 

town,  and  taking  the  Nevada  road,  walked  rapidly  over  hills 
and  down  dales  until  compelled  to  stop  and  rest.  Fortunately, 
there  were  few  persons  on  the  road  so  early  in  the  morning, 
and  when  she  heard  any  one  approaching,  she  stepped  behind 
some  friendly  bush  until  they  had  passed.  It  was  not  yet 
seven  o'clock  when  she  reached  Nevada.  She  stopped  at  a 
restaurant,  the  only  one  in  the  place,  and  asked  -for  a  cup  of 
coffee.  The  proprietor,  who  was  also  head  waiter,  brought  her 
the  coffee  and  a  steaming  breakfast. 

Linda  expressed  so  much  astonishment  at  the  sumptuous 
manner  in  which  her  simple  order  had  been  filled,  that  she 
quite  upset  the  good-hearted  German,  and  he  stammered  a 
most  awkward  apology  : 

"Ich  keeps  a  zimlich  cheep  restaurant,  ma'am,  und  ven  any 
pody  cums  lookin'  hunrich,  like  you,  by  Got,  Ich  gibs  'em  all 
dey  can  eat,  und  says,  Das  ish  fur  der  Lord.  Das  ish  all  die 
relichion  Ich  hab." 

Linda  fancied  she  must  have  presented  a  very  hungry  appear 
ance,  from  the  amount  of  sympathy  she  drew  from  that  honest 
German's  heart.  She  was  so  pale  from  her  sleepless  nights, 
and  exhausted  from  the  long  walk  to  Nevada,  that  she  did  in 
deed  appear  in  need  of  sympathy.  She  ate  heartily,  for  the 
breakfast  was  tempting,  and  she  was  soon  ready  to  undertake 
her  difficult  task.  Upon  offering  to  pay  her  host,  it  took  con 
siderable  persuasion  to  induce  the  old  German  to  accept  the 
money ;  he  seemed  to  think  he  had  no  business  with  it,  as  it 
interfered  with  his  charity. 

It  was  but  a  short  walk  from  the  restaurant  to  the  jail.  There 
was  no  one  in  sight,  so  Linda  mounted  the  steps  and  knocked 
at  the  iron-barred  door.  The  jailor  immediately  made  his 
appearance,  at  t  the  grating, -and  asked,  "  Who  is  there?" 
When  he  saw  it  was  a  woman,  he  said,  roughly : 


96  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"I  would  like  to  see  Mr.  Wetherell,  if  you  please,"  said 
Linda,  quite  afraid  of  the  rough  specimen  of  humanity  peering 
through  the  grating. 

"But  I  don't  please;  not  if  I  know  myself,  and  I  think  I 
do,"  said  the  man,  yawning.  • 

"  Can  I  not  see  him  for  one  moment?  "  pleaded  Linda. 

"  Let  me  introduce  to  your  respectful  notice,  Mr.  Jacob 
Sniffens.  When  you  know  Jake  Sniffens,  you  know  a  man 
what  is  a  man  —  a  man  as  keeps  his  word." 

Linda  felt  discouraged,  but  asked  again  imploringly,  "  Can 
I  not  speak  a  few  words  to  him  through  the  grating  ?  " 

"  Can  you  hyer,  or  can't  you  hyer  ?  "  said  Mr.  Jacob  Sniffens, 
fiercely.  "  I  never  could  get  along  with  petticoats.  Them 
and  me  don't  hitch  somehow.  When  I  says  no  to  a  man,  he 
walks  off  in  a  style  becoming  so  high  a  functionary  as  a  pair  of 
pantaloons ;  but  when  I  says  no  to  a  woman,  she  stands  there 
a  blubberin',  and  teasin',  and  tormentin'  of  a  fellow  as  natural 
as  if  she  had  a  self-acting  pump  inside  o'  her." 

The  tears  rolled  down  Linda's  cheeks,  and  it  was  with  great 
effort  she  asked  :  "  Where  can  I  find  the  sheriff?  " 

"Well,  I  think  you  can't  find  him,"  said  Mr.  Sniffens, 
coolly.  "He's  went  to  Sacramento  after  that  ere  other  cuss 
in  the  same  line  of  business  as  your  sweetheart ;  only  he  robbed 
the  stage — a  darned  site  decenter  job." 

"When  will  he  be  back?"  asked  Linda,  without  appearing 
to  notice  his  insulting  remarks. 

"He  won't  be  back  afore  day  after  to-morrow,  and  maybe 
not  then.  Have  you  got  any  more  questions  to  ask?  " 

"No,  sir;  but  will  you  please  tell  Mr.  Wetherell  his  sister 
came  to  see  him,  and  was  not  admitted  ?  ' ' 

As  Linda  went  away,  she  heard  the  insolent  fellow  laughing. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  97 

"  Sister  !  That 's  good  !  That 's  excellent !  Them  women 
folks  must  think  Jake  Sniffens  is  green." 

When  Linda  was  out  of  hearing,  he  said,  after  considerable 
reflection  :  "I  guess  I  '11  not  trouble  that  ere  young  devil  with 
that  ere  message,  for  like  enough  he  'd  try  to  get  out,  and  the 
sheriff  bein'  away,  Jake's  head  might  come  to  grief.  I  would  n't 
trust  that  imp  of  Satan  if  he  was  reposin'  in  Abraham's 
bosom. ' ' 

Linda  had  no  alternative  but  to  retrace  her  steps.  She  knew 
Bridget  would  miss  her,  but  had  arranged  that  by  saying  she 
might  go  to  Mrs.  Gray's. 

The  kind  German's  breakfast  was  a  lucky  deed  of  charity, 
notwithstanding  it  was  paid  for.  Linda's  disappointment  at 
not  seeing  her  brother,  after  the  fatigue  of  the  morning,  almost 
prostrated  her.  She  longed  to  rest  in  some  quiet  place,  but 
the  dread  of  being  interrogated  and  stared  at,  prevented  her 
entering  a  strange  house,  so  she  wearily  went  on  her  way. 
When  some  distance  from  Nevada  she  noticed  a  by-path, 
which  seemed  a  nearer  road  to  Grass  Valley.  She  followed  it 
through  the  thick  chaparral  until  she  came  to  a  little  emi 
nence,  from  which  she  saw  the  smoke  from  a  chimney  of  a  log 
cabin.  It  was  not  far  distant,  and  she  hailed  it  with  delight, 
thinking  the  humble  inmates  might  be  kind  enough  to  let  her 
rest  there.  She  had  no  sooner  approached  the  cabin,  and  stepped 
upon  the  great  log  steps,  and  taken  one  glance  at  the  interior, 
than  she  comprehended  her  position  and  mistake.  There  were 
three  men  lying  in  bunks,  who  started  at  her  approach ;  and 
one  of  them,  with  long,  black,  curly  hair,  who  prove*d  to  be  the 
famous  "  Curly  Smith,"  exclaimed  : 

"  Hellow  !  Where  the  devil  did  you  come  from?  Walk  in, 
sis.  You  've  struck  a  good  camp.  We  are  in  need  of  petti- 
9  G 


98  FREE    PRISONERS. 

coats,  since  Jennie  on  the  Green  went  down  to  Boston  Ravine 
to  live."  * 

Linda  started  to  run,  pale  as  a  ghost,  and  almost  fainting 
from  fear.  Curly  Smith  jumped  to  the  floor,  calling,  "  Come 
back  here,  or  I  '11  bring  you  back." 

Just  then,  a  man  who  was  lying  on  some  straw  in  what 
seemed  a  dog  kennel,  only  larger,  and  like  a  small  addition  to 
the  cabin,  said  to  Linda,  in  a  loud  whisper,  as  she  was  passing, 
"Take  this." 

As  a  drowning  man  will  grasp  after  a  straw,  Linda  grasped 
the  pistol  the  stranger  offered  her.  She  had  never  fired  one, 
although  she  had  handled  them  and  understood  how  to  use 
them ;  for  the  country  was  so  wild,  almost  every  one  carried 
weapons  of  some  description.  As  Curly  Smith  was  determined 
to  pursue  her,  she  knew  running  was  out  of  the  question.  She 
turned  suddenly,  and  raising  her  pistol,  said,  with  the  firmness 
despair  only  brings,  "  Stand  off,  sir,  or  I  '11  shoot !  " 

"You  will,  will  you?"  said  Curly,  with  a  contemptuous 
sneer.  "Two  can  play  that  game.  My  kitten,  you  will  find 
yourself  in  a  lion's  paws  before  you  get  through." 

"  Hold,"  said  the  man  coming  out  of  the  kennel.  "  If  you 
touch  that  girl,  I  '11  spill  your  vile  blood  for  you."  He  imme 
diately  drew  another  pistol  from  his  belt,  and,  aiming  it  at 
Smith,  stood  at  Linda's  side. 

The  two  men  in  the  cabin  had  come  out  in  the  meantime, 
and  both  with  one  voice  said,  "We'll  back  you,  Bob;  sail 
in." 

The  plot  of  ground  where  this  strange  group  stood  was  brown 
and  seared  from  the  scorching  summer  sun.  They  were  com 
pletely  hedged  in  with  chaparral  and  underbrush  on  all  sides, 
only  relieved  by  the  brown  cabin  to  their  right,  with  its  blue 
smoke  wreathing  toward  the  purer  blue  of  the  mountain  sky. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  99 

Beyond  the  cabin,  the  pine-covered  mountains  seemed  to  touch 
the  very  heavens,  while  down  to  the  left  rushed  a  foaming 
stream,  almost  lost  in  the  labyrinth  of  luxuriant  greens.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  outlet  to  the  place,  it  was  so  isolated  from 
human  habitations,  and  so  thickly  woven  in  the  mountain  forest. 

Linda  looked  superbly  beautiful,  as  she  stood  there,  pistol  in 
hand,  ready  to  shoot  at  one  of  the  most  desperate  villains  the 
Sierra  Nevada  Mountains  ever  knew.  Her  slight,  maidenly 
form  seemed  little  in  accordance  with  her  position.  Her  hat 
had  fallen  back,  and  her  soft  brown  hair  was  dishevelled ;  her 
face  was  perfectly  colorless ;  but  her  large,  luminous  eyes  blazed 
like  flashes  of  fire,  as  she  cast  eager  glances  at  those  desperate 
men  in  whose  hands  her  destiny  lay. 

Curly  Smith  was  dressed  in  black  pants  and  a  gray  flannel 
shirt.  He  wore  a  broad  leather  belt  around  his  waist,  which 
contained  a  second  pistol  and  a  knife;  and  his  companions 
were  all  similarly  attired.  Curly  would  not  have  been  a  homely 
man,  but  for  the  fiendish  expression  of  his  small,  black  eyes. 
His  hair,  which  was  jet  black,  hung  in  a  mat  of  small  curls 
about  his  neck  and  over  his  shoulders,  from  which  peculiarity 
he  received  the  cognomen  of  "Curly  Smith."  He  was  a 
desperate-looking  man,  and  one  of  the  most  dangerous  and 
unrelenting  in  the  mountain  gangs.  On  one  side  of  Linda 
stood  her  friend  of  the  kennel,  a  man  with  a  handsome,  benign 
countenance,  quite  out  of  place  in  a  desperado.  On  her  other 
side  were  the  two  who  had  come  out  of  the  cabin,  and  ap 
parently  equal  companions  with  Curly  Smith,  although,  by 
some  strange  influence,  entirely  controlled  by  the  milder  man. 

Smith  laughed  a  low,  fiendish  laugh,  as  he  said,  in  a  deep, 
discordant  voice : 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  miserable  drones  respect  my  laws  ?  I  '11 
show  you  what  Curly  Smith  says  shall  be  done,  and  if  words 


IOO  FREE    PRISONERS. 

won't  do,  I'll  put  a  hole  through  you  that  will  make  you  re 
member."  Saying  this,  he  aimed  at  Linda's  first  friend. 
There  was  a  click  of  pistols,  and  four  were  pointed  at  Smith. 
Linda,  in  her  excitement,  bore  a  little  heavily  on  the  trigger, 
and  her  pistol  went  off,  the  ball  passing  through  Smith's  sleeve. 
He  was  said  to  have  known  no  fear,  but  he  dropped  his  weapon 
as  the  ball  grazed  his  arm,  saying,  doggedly,  "Four  against 
one  is  not  fair  play." 

The  men  were  astonished  at  Linda's  shooting.  Thinking 
she  had  done  it  intentionally,  her  first  friend  said : 

"  She  is  a  trump,  by  George.  Curly  Smith,  if  you,  who 
dote  on  courage,  can  beat  her,  you  may  fight  her." 

"I  move,"  said  another,  "that  we  three  escort  her  to  the 
road." 

"Escort  her  to  ,  if  you  like.     Such  spoonies  as  you 

would  make  a  fine  howling  congregation,"  said  Curly,  as  he 
disappeared  within  the  cabin. 

One  of  the  men  said  to  Linda's  first  friend,  "Bob,  you  can 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  this  young  lady  home ;  but  be  back 
by  dark,  for  we  will  want  you. ' ' 

The  two  men  then  followed  Curly  into  the  cabin.  Linda  and 
her  friend  went  quickly  along  the  narrow  path  for  some  distance 
without  exchanging  a  word,  Bob  leading  the  way,  and  Linda 
following  closely.  Finally,  feeling  quite  faint  after  her  unnat 
ural  excitement,  and  coming  into  a  more  open  country,  Linda 
asked,  wearily : 

"  Can  I  not  sit  down  on  this  log  and  rest  a  while?  I  am  so 
tired." 

"Yes,  certainly,"  said  her  escort,  stopping  at  once,  but 
keeping  at  a  respectful  distance.  "We  are  so  near  the  main 
road  here,  there  is  no  danger.  I  hurried  to  get  as  far  away 
from  the  cabin  as  possible,  for,  if  Curly  Smith  had  taken  a 


FREE    PRISONERS.  IOI 

notion  to  come  after  us,  he  would  have  come.  How  in  the 
world  did  you  chance  to  come  to  his  cabin?  " 

"  I  was  on  my  way  from  Nevada  when  I  saw  the  path  lead 
ing  off  toward  Grass  Valley,  and  thinking  it  a  shorter  route, 
followed  it.  But  who  is  Curly  Smith?" 

"  He  is  one  of  the  most  desperate,  daring  villains  in  these 
mountains." 

"  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  me  this 
day?" 

"  Do  not  thank  me  at  all.  I  am  not  overly  tender  or  gentle, 
Miss  ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  the  moment  I  saw  you,  to-day, 
you  brought  back  to  my  mind  so  forcibly  one  who  is  gone  from 
me,  that  at  first  sight  of  you  I  would  almost  have  sworn  it  was 
she.  She  had  brown  eyes  and  hair  like  yours,  and  if  she  had 
only  lived,  Bob  Rivers  would  have  been  a  different  man.  I  can 
be  bold  and  daring  with  the  rest  of  them  until  I  think  of  my 
lost  Fannie,  then  I  weaken.  You  can  thank  Fannie,  the  sweet 
est  angel  in  heaven,  for  taking  care  of  you  to-day,  and  not 
me." 

"  Let  us  hope  that  her  holy  influence  may  yet  take  as  good 
care  of  you,  and  bring  you  out  of  trouble  to  peace  as  safely,  as 
it  has  done  me  to-day." 

"Safe?"  asked  Bob  Rivers,  bitterly.  "You  think  you  are 
safe,  do  you  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  with  you  I  feel  I  am  perfectly  safe,"  said  Linda,  earn 
estly.  "  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  after  your  kind  protec 
tion  to-day?  Notwithstanding  you  attribute  it  to  my  likeness 
to  Fannie,  I  am  sure  it  was  due  more  to  your  own  noble  sense 
of  honor." 

"Really,  Miss,  you  make  me  feel  more  like  a  man  than  I 
have  felt  for  many  a  long  day.  You  are  safe  with  me,  but  there 
are  few  men,  let  alone  young  girls,  who  would  consider  them- 


IO2  FREE    PRISONERS. 

selves  safe  on  this  lonely  mountain  path,  hedged  in  on  all 
sides  with  thick  chaparral,  in  company  with  Bob  Rivers." 

"  Is  Bob  Rivers,  then,  so  desperate  a  character  as  he  is  pic 
tured  by  himself?"  asked  Linda,  kindly. 

' '  Bob  Rivers, ' '  continued  her  companion,  ' '  was  once  a  gentle 
man  ;  but  a  calamity  befell  him,  and  he  is  living  to  redress  it. 
I  told  you  I  owed  Curly  Smith  a  grudge.  It  is  a  little  thing, 
perhaps  only  the  loss  of  peace  and  happiness." 

' '  You  are  not  half  so  bad  as  you  think,  or  you  could  not  so 
clearly  define  your  own  position.  You  are  not  lost  to  all  sense 
of  goodness,  and  I  hope  to  hear  better  things  of  you  in  the 
future.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Ben  Wetherell,  who  is  under 
arrest  for  having  robbed  a  teamster?  " 

It  was  with  great  effort  Linda  asked  that  question  of  her 
companion,  but  it  occurred  to  her  if  Ben  was  guilty,  such  a 
man  would  lively  know  it. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  by  sight.  He  was  a  fine,  brave  fellow; 
and  I  don't  see  how  he  got  into  such  a  mean  scrape.  He  was 
a  great  hunter,  and  used  to  go  all  over  these  mountains.  Every 
body  knew  who  he  was,  and  liked  him,  and  no  one  molested 
him.  Once,  a  couple  of  our  men,  just  from  over  the  moun 
tains,  were  out  on  a  lark.  They  stopped  Wetherell,  and 
politely  asked  for  his  purse.  He  turned  on  them,  and  they 
faced  about  and  left  in  double  quick.  He  was  a  brave  fellow." 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  guilty?  " 

"  Guilty  ?  To  be  sure.  The  teamster  swears  to  his  identity; 
and  that  very  afternoon  I  saw  him  out  hunting,  dressed  just  as 
the  teamster  described  him.  His  partners,  poor  fellows,  feel 
dreadfully  cut  up  about  it,  and  think  him  perfectly  innocent ;  but 
they  say  he  was  out  hunting  that  afternoon  later  than  usual,  and 
was  still  away  at  the  time  .tjie  teamster  was  robbed.  Great 


FREE    PRISONERS.  IO3 

God!  what  ails  you?"  and  Bob  sprang  forward  just  in  time 
to  catch  Linda  in  his  arms  as  she  staggered  and  fell. 

The  excitement  of  the  day  and  her  bodily  fatigue  had  quite 
exhausted  her;  and  this  final  blow,  this  man's  positive  asser 
tion  of  Ben's  guilt,  felled  her  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER. 

BOB  RIVERS  had  never  before  seen  a  lady  faint,  and  his 
first  impression  was  that  she  was  dead.  He  did  not  dare 
go  for  assistance,  lest  it  might  be  thought  he  had  been  the 
cause  of  her  death ;  still,  he  could  not  leave  her  there  alone. 
Finally,  it  flashed  upon  him  that  some  delicate  persons  became 
unconscious  and  still  lived.  With  that  idea,  he  rushed  through 
the  thick  brush  to  the  running  stream,  saturated  his  handker 
chief  and  filled  his  hat  with  water.  When  he  returned,  and 
found  her  still  insensible,  he  quietly,  and  gently  as  a  woman, 
bathed  her  face  and  hands,  and  moistened  her  colorless  lips. 
Soon  she  moved,  gasped  for  breath ;  then  opened  her  eyes  and 
stared  wildly  around.  Bob's  reassuring  words  that  she  was 
safe,  soon  brought  her  back  to  a  perfect  realization  of  her 
position. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  was  able  to  undertake  the  re 
mainder  of  her  journey,  although  Bob  assured  her  it  was  not 
more  than  half  a  mile.  Grass  Valley  was  a  country  town  and  a 
long  town,  the  principal  part  being  built  on  two  streets  that 
formed  a  perfect  right  angle.  After  reaching  Main  Street,  where 
the  settlement  began,  it  was  fully  half  a  mile  to  Linda's  home. 


IO4  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Her  feet  were  wet,  her  dress  muddy,  her  hair  in  disorder,  and 
her  whole  appearance  so  remarkable  she  dreaded  the  prying 
eyes  of  the  villagers. 

When  she  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  continue  her  walk, 
Bob  kindly  offered  her  his  assistance.  She  took  his  arm,  and 
was  thankful  for  his  strong  support,  until  they  reached  the  edge 
of  the  town,  when  he  said  : 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  must  leave  you  here,  Miss.  I  dare  not 
go  any  farther." 

"I  am  sorry,  too,  my  friend,"  and  Linda  offered  him  her 
hand.  "I  cannot  thank  you  enough  for  your  kindness  to  me 
to-day.  If  my  humble  prayers  can  avail  you  anything,  they 
shall  be  offered  up  nightly,  that  the  remembrance  of  Fannie 
may  yet  bring  you  back  to  the  paths  of  rectitude.  Here  is  the 
pistol  you  so  kindly  gave  me.  I  almost  forgot  to  return  it." 

"Please  keep  it,"  said  Bob,  beseechingly.  "Carry  it;  if 
you  should  ever  go  alone  again,  it  may  serve  you." 

"I  will  not  deprive  you  of  it." 

"  I  have  more  ;  and  if  you  will  only  honor  me  by  accepting 
such  a  poor  gift  from  so  unworthy  a  personage,  you  will  make 
me  happy." 

"Then  I  will  keep  it,  and  the  giver  shall  always  be  kindly 
remembered." 

"  May  I  not  know  the  young  lady's  name  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  escorting  to-day?"  asked  Bob,  with  all  the  def 
erential  grace  of  a  polished  gentleman. 

"  I  am  Linda  Wetherell,  Ben's  sister.  I  went  to  Nevada  to 
day  to  try  and  see  him,  but  was  unsuccessful." 

"Mr.  Wetherell  is  fortunate  in  having  such  a  sister.  If  he 
is  worthy  of  you,  and  I  believe  him  to  be  a  good  fellow,  you 
may  yet  save  him." 

"Thank  you  for  those  comforting  words.     I  hope  we  may 


t     FREE    PRISONERS.  10$ 

meet  again."  She  was  turning  to  go,  when  Bob  delayed  her 
by  saying : 

11  If  you  ever  have  occasion  to  wander  in  the  mountains,  and 
are  in  danger,  mention  my  name ;  and  if  I  can  be  found,  I  will 
be  your  obedient  servant." 

A  buggy  went  dashing  past,  containing  a  lady  and  gentle 
man.  It  was  her  mother,  with  Major  Warren.  Linda  started 
as  if  shot.  She  knew  her  mother's  piercing  black  eyes  had 
seen  her  bidding  Bob  Rivers  good-by.  Fortunately,  Mr. 
Warren's  attention  was  so  entirely  engrossed  by  his  unruly 
horses  that  he  noticed  nothing. 

The  shock  seemed  to  strengthen  Linda  for  the  remainder  of 
her  walk  home.  She  hurried  along,  meeting  few  she  knew,  and 
no  one  appeared  to  take  especial  notice  of  her.  On  reaching 
home,  she  went  quietly  to  her  own  room,  arranged  her  toilette, 
and  called  Bridget,  to  find  out  whether  her  mother  had  been 
inquiring  for  her. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Bridget,  "yer  mither  was  after  askin* 
for  ye;  for,  bless  yer  swate  sowl,  the  grand  Major  was  after 
wantin'  to  take  ye  ridin'.  So  I  tould  'er  ye  were  at  Mrs.  Gray's ; 
and  she  wint  there  after  ye,  but  come  home  and  jawed  me  up 
and  jawed  me  down  ;  said  I  was  a  liar,  and  in  wid  ye,  and  if  I 
didn't  moind  me  ane  business,  I  might  take  mesilf  off,  bag 
and  baggage,  the  first  of  the  month." 

"  I  am  sorry  it  caused  you  so  much  trouble,"  said  Linda, 
kindly ;  "  but  I  hope  it  will  not  prove  serious." 

"Sure,  ye  naden't  bother  yer  dear  sowl  about  me,"  said 
Bridget,  apparently  not  bothered  about  herself.  "  She'll  not  be 
after  sindin'  me  off  in  a  hurry.  Faith  she  can't  find  another 
that  'd  put  up  with  her  impudence." 

"Bridget,  you  forget  yourself  sometimes.  You  must  speak 
more  respectfully  of  my  mother,"  said  Linda,  firmly. 


106  FREE    PRISONERS.    I 

"Disrespictful !  Is  it  me  ye  would  call  disrespictful?  Be 
the  stick,  I  niver  said  a  disrespictful  word  of  a  livin'  craythur, 
espichially  of  yer  mither,  for  she  's  a  foine-lookin'  lady,  if  she 
is  the  biggest  divil  I  ever  saw.  How  she  iver  begot  such  a 
swate  little  craythur  as  yersilf,  Miss  Linda,  faith  it 's  beyand 
the  power  o'  mortal  to  tell ;  but  I  'm  after  thinkin'  the  blissed 
angel  Gabriel  smoiled  on  the  divil  about  that  toime." 

Bridget  was  perfectly  incorrigible,  and  Linda  wisely  con 
cluded  to  let  her  chatter  in  her  harmless  way.  The  twig  had 
not  been  properly  bent  in  girlhood,  and  the  sturdy  tree  with 
stood  all  attempts  at  improvement  and  cultivation. 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Linda  had  a  delicate 
lunch,  after  which  she  laid  down,  and  slept  sweetly,  until 
awakened  by  Bridget,  who  came  with  a  message  from  Mrs. 
Wetherell  requesting  her  to  be  present  at  tea  that  evening. 

Linda  accepted  the  request  as  a  command,  and  hastened  to 
comply.  On  entering  the  supper-room,  Major  Warren  came 
toward  her  to  shake  hands,  but  she  gave  him  a  stately  bow,  and 
passed  on  to  her  seat. 

"  Your  mother  assures  me  we  are  to  be  the  best  of  friends 
now,  Miss  Linda,"  said  the  Major,  with  a  simpering  smile. 

"You  should  not  hold  the  daughter  accountable  for  what  the 
mother  may  say,  Major  Warren,"  replied  Linda,  coldly. 

The  Major's  countenance  darkened,  but  he  did  not  reply.  It 
was  the  first  time  Linda  had  ever  spoken  disrespectfully  of  her 
mother,  and  Mrs.  Wetherell' s  face  showed  she  felt  it  keenly. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  loss  of  her  power  over  Linda  she  felt.  It 
was  only  an  instantaneous  flash,  but  Linda's  quick  eye  read  it, 
and  her  own  face  was  suffused  with  blushes. 

Mrs.  Wetherell  never  allowed  her  feelings  in  any  way  to  be 
tray  her,  and  while  the  spasmodic  indication  of  annoyance 
flashed  over  her  dark,  oval  face,  she  darted  an  angry  glance  at 


FREE    PRISONERS.  IC>7 

Linda,  and  changed  the  conversation  in  a  sprightly,  racy  man 
ner,  that  can  only  be  done  by  a  shrewd  woman  of  the  world. 

'There  are  many  modest  tea-tables,  where  the  frugal  meal  be 
gins  with  grace  and  ends  with  a  blessing,  whereat  are  played 
finer  plays  and  better  acted  than  often  appear  behind  the  foot 
lights  of  the  world-famed  theatres.  Mrs.  Wetherell's  whole 
life  seemed  to  be  one  studied  part,  in  which  the  real  woman 
seldom  appeared. 

After  the  evening  meal,  Captain  Wetherell  asked  Major  War 
ren  to  accompany  him  up  town,  to  which  he  assented,  much  to 
Linda's  relief;  but  it  only  proved  a  respite  from  one  terror  to 
encounter  another.  She  was  going  to  her  room  to  pass  the 
evening  alone,  as  was  her  habit,  when  Mrs.  Wetherell  called  her 
back. 

"Linda,.!  wish  to  have  one  more  conversation  with  you  in 
regard  to  your  marriage  with  Major  Warren,  which  is  to  take 
place  a  little  more  than  two  months  from  now.  You  must  give 
him  your  answer  in  person.  You  should  feel  flattered  to  think 
he  would  marry  you,  disgraced  as  you  are  by  your  brother.  As 
I  have  already  told  you,  in  marrying  him  you  will  be  independ 
ent  financially,  and  in  becoming  Mrs.  Major  Warren  the  old 
dishonored  name  of  Wetherell  will  be  lost,  and,  it  is  hoped, 
forgotten.  You  do  not  know  your  own  good ;  and  I  ask  you 
again  kindly,  hoping  you  have  wisdom  enough  to  decide  to 
your  own  future  advantage." 

"  I  have  decided,  mother,"  said  Linda,  firmly  but  respect 
fully.  "I  decided  in  the  beginning.  I  told  you  then,  and 
repeat  it  now,  I  never  will  take  sacred  vows  upon  myself  I  posi 
tively  can  never  fulfil,  or  be  the  wife  of  any  man  so  thoroughly 
obnoxious  to  me,  were  he  as  rich  as  Croesus." 

"  Is  that  your  final  answer  ?  "  hissed  Mrs.  Wetherell  between 
her  teeth. 


IO8  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"Yes,  mother,  that  can  be  my  only  answer,"  replied  Linda, 
while  her  soft  brown  eyes  pleaded  more  eloquently  than  words. 

''Then,  imdutiful  girl,  you  shall  be  nothing  more  to  me !  " 
and  Mrs.  Wetherell  paced  the  floor  rapidly.  She  looked  a 
fiend  in  her  grand  rage.  Suddenly  stopping  before  Linda,  she 
exclaimed : 

"Go  from  my  presence.  Before  to-morrow  noon  you  shall 
be  on  your  way  to  Nevada,  where  you  can  remain  near  your 
well-mated  brother.  Anything  to  get  you  out  of  my  sight !  I 
am,  indeed,  blessed  in  my  children  —  one  a  highwayman,  the 
other  an  outcast !  I  will  see  that  your  board  is  paid  and  you 
have  clothes  to  wear,  but  I  never  wish  to  lay  my  eyes  upon 
your  face  again,  unless  you  change  your  present  decision.  So 
long  as  you  persist  in  your  wilful  course,  you  are  no  longer  my 
daughter. ' ' 

"  Oh,  mother,"  pleaded  Linda,  but  her  sobs  choked  her  fur 
ther  utterance. 

"  Go,  I  say ;  I  hate  your  very  presence  !  "  and  Mrs.  Weth 
erell  stood  cold  and  unbending,  pointing  toward  the  open  door, 
until  Linda,  with  her  head  bowed  and  weeping  bitterly,  passed 
submissively  through  the  dining-room  into  her  own  quiet  cham 
ber,  where,  unmolested,  she  could  pour  forth  the  bitterness  of 
her  sorrow,  and  reflect  upon  her  cheerless  future.  Her  mother 
never  threatened  without  executing,  and  she  knew,  before  the 
close  of  another  day,  her  home  would  be  among  strangers. 

The  Major  had  received  a  telegraphic  despatch  to  return 
home  at  once.  The  midnight  stage  would  take  him  away,  and 
she  had  no  fear  of  her  mother  seeking  her  under  any  circum 
stances;  'so,  endeavoring  to  conceal  the  traces  of  grief  her 
weeping  had  made,  she  went  out  into  the  friendly  darkness,  and 
was  soon  at  the  cottage.  , 

Nellie,  with  her  gentle,  warm  heart,  was  always  ready  to  greet 


FREE    PRISONERS. 

her.  George  and  Walter  were  also  there  to  welcome  her,  and 
they  saw,  by  the  pale,  haggard  face  and  bloodshot  eyes,  what 
struggles  the  poor  girl  had  passed  through. 

"  Linda,"  said  Nellie,  "  your  mother  was  here  this  morning 
inquiring  after  you,  but  I  could  not  give  her  any  account  of 
you.  About  noon  I  went  over  to  see  you,  but  Bridget  said  you 
were  not  at  home.  Your  bed  was  tumbled,  but  you  had  evi 
dently  not  slept  in  it  last  night.  You  must  tell  me  where  you 
have  been,  little  truant." 

Linda's  face  flushed  as  she  thought  of  her  venturesome  day. 
"  I  will  some  time,  but  am  too  tired  to-night.  I  came  to  say  to 
you,"  and  she  drew  her  chair  closer  to  Nellie's,  as  George  and 
Walter  were  talking  over  some  business  arrangements,  "  that  I 
must  leave  you  to-morrow." 

"  Leave  us  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Yes."  Linda  tried  to  suppress  the  tears  that  seemed  ready 
to  flow  continually  in  her  long  days  of  grief.  "I  must  leave 
you,  my  best,  my  only  friends.  Mother  has  told  me  I  must 
go  to  Nevada  to  live,  but'  I  have  no  idea  with  whom. ' ' 

"  Why  are  you  to  go  there  ?  " 

"The  same  old  feud  —  because  I  will  not  marry  Major  War 
ren." 

"You  poor  child!"  Nellie's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 
"  Could  your  mother  be  persuaded  to  let  you  stay  with  us?  We 
would  be  so  happy  to  have  you.  Would  we  not,  George  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  my  dear,  if  you  say  so,"  answered  George,  smiling; 
"but  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea  what  you  are  talking 
about." 

"  Linda's  mother  says  she  must  leave  home,  and  I  want  her 
to  come  and  stay  with  us. ' ' 

"  Certainly,  Linda.  We  will  be  delighted  to  have  you," 
said  George,  warmly.  "  If  our  little  nookery  is  not  big  enough, 
10 


HO  FREE    PRISONERS. 

we  will  gladly  enlarge  it  for  such  a  valuable  addition  as  your 
self." 

**  You  are  very  kind.  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart ;  but  you 
know  father  has  business  near  Nevada,  and  is  there  quite  often 
—  besides,"  her  voice  trefrnbled  slightly  as  she  added,  "  Ben  is 
there." 

No  persuasions  would  avail  to  change  her  purpose,  and  she 
left  the  little  cottage,  where  she  had  spent  so  many  happy 
days,  with  a  heavy  heart.  Walter  ha'd  been  unusually  quiet  all 
the  evening,  and  Nellie  told  her  he  had  been  as  blue  as  an  in 
digo  bag  ever  since  she  stopped  coming  there,  and  if  she  ceased 
her  visits  altogether,  she  feared  he  would  soon  become  as  dis 
agreeable  as  all  other  old  bachelors. 

After  affectionate  good-nights,  with  a  promise  from  Nellie  to 
be  with  her  the  next  day  before  she  went  away,  and  also  assur 
ances  of  frequent  visits,  wherever  her  future  home  might  be, 
Linda  left  the  cottage,  accompanied  by  Walter.  As  they  went 
out  into  the  street,  he  said  : 

"  If  you  are  to  leave  us  to-morrow,  Linda,  will  you  not  grant 
me  one  parting  favor  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  certainly,  if  I  can,"  answered  Linda,  frankly. 

"  Then  you  have  said  '  yes,'  for  you  can  as  easily  as  not.  I 
want  you  to  take  a  roundabout  way  to  get  home.  The  evening 
is  pleasant,  and  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you  before  you  go 
away.  It  seems  an  age  since  I  last  saw  you,  yet  it  is  only  a  few 
days.  You  must  not  leave  me  for  an  indefinite  time  without 
some  assurance  that  my  hopes  are  not  in  vain.  Linda,  you  do 
not  know  how  dear  you  are  to  me.  I  cannot  live  without 
you." 

We  are  all  weak,  human  creatures — often  when  the  spirit 
says  "no"  the  yielding  flesh  goes  astray.  Linda  did  not  in 
tend  to  give  Walter  this  opportunity  to  address  her,  but  she 


FREE    PRISONERS.  Ill 

loved  to  be  with  him.  Besides,  it  was  her  last  evening  there, 
perhaps  for  a  long  time,  and  that  meant  the  last  of  her  happi 
ness.  "Why  not  be  as  happy  then  as  possible?"  So  they 
walked  and  talked  over  all  Ben's  troubles  and  their  own  future 
happiness.  Finally,  Walter  asked  her  why  she  was  going  to 
leave  home,  and  she  unhesitatingly  told  him  the  cause. 

"Go,  then,  dear  Linda.  In  a  few  weeks  I  will^bring  you 
proofs  that  Belle  Burton  has  no  claim  upon  me,  and  asks  none, 
and  you  shall  be  my  wife." 

Linda's  hand  trembled  within  his  arm,  as  she  said,  quietly : 

"It  is  a  great  happiness  to  talk  of  and  hope  for,  but  there 
seems  to  be  an  evil  fate  that  governs  my  every  effort,  and  all 
my  dreams  of  happiness  are  followed  in  reality  by  horrid  night 
mares.  Do  not  talk  to  me  any  more,  Walter,  of  love  or  mar 
riage.  When  you  are  free,  come ;  but  even  then  I  will  dread 
your  coming,  for  my  mother  has  cursed  my  union  with  any 
other  person  than  Major  Warren." 

"  My  poor  little  girl  !  "  said  Walter,  tenderly.  "A  mother's 
curse  should  not  be  feared,  when  you  are*  innocent  and  she 
guilty.  So  long  as  you  do  that  which  is  right,  you  will  not 
suffer  from  her  ambitious  designs." 

"But,  Walter,  she  will  make  it  her  life  study  to  make  me 
miserable.  You  cannot  understand  the  unnatural  feelings  she 
has  towards  me.  It  seems  contrary  to  all  laws  of  consanguinity. 
I  have  longed  so  for  her  love  and  affectionate  caresses,  and 
instead  I  have  seen  a  shudder  pass  over  her  frame  at  my  touch. 
If  she  knew  you  loved  me,"  said  Linda,  timidly,  "mark  my 
words,  she  would  turn  your  love  to  hatred." 

"  Never  !  "  said  Walter,  firmly.  "  No  one  shall  influence  me 
against  the  woman  I  love.  If  you  say  but  the  word,  to-morrow 
shall  be  our  wedding-day,  and  Walter  French  will  be  the  hap 
piest  man  in  Nevada  County." 


112  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  No,  Walter,  no.  You  are  noble  and  good,  but  you  must 
wait  until  your  future  wife's  brother  is  out  of  jail.  I  would 
make  a  sad  bride,  and  be  entirely  selfish,  if  I  could  not  now 
devote  myself  to  poor  Ben." 

"Then,  darling,  you  can  choose  your  own  time,  provided  it 
is  not  too  long,  and  at  last  I  can  claim  you  as  my  own  little 
wife." 

"That  you  shall,  Walter.  If  you  can  love  such  a  sorrow- 
stricken  creature  as  I  am,  you  are  welcome  to  me." 

Walter's  arm  was  about  her  waist;  her  head  nestled  on  his 
breast ;  his  lips  touched  hers,  and  the  plighted  hearts  beat  in 
ecstatic  unison.  Nothing  but  the  dull  thud  of  the  distant  mills 
broke  the  stillness  of  the  calm  night.  Nature  seemed  hushed 
in  reverence  of  happiness  so  full,  so  sweet,  so  silent.  The  very 
pines  ceased  their  moaning,  and  when  the  cold  moon  peeped 
from  behind  the  far-off  mountains,  she  seemed  a  relentless  in- 
termeddler,  exposing  Linda's  blushes  and  Walter's  triumphant 
smiles. 

Ah,  Linda,  a  week  ago  you  would  have  said,  "  Not  until  you 
have  heard  from  Belle  Burton  !  ' '  But  Linda  was  a  sad,  lonely 
girl,  and  she  loved  Walter.  What  was  Belle  Burton  to  her 
then? 

Weary,  but  with  a  happy  heart,  Linda  sank  to  rest.  The 
old  prayers  came  back  in  all  their  freshness,  and  she  thought 
bitterly,  "I  can  always  kneel  and  pray  when  I  am  happy,  but 
grief  deadens  my  senses,  and  seems  to  come  between  me  and 
everything  heavenly.  The  time  when  all  good  people  say  they 
feel  drawn  toward  God,  I  am  farthest  away. ' ' 


FREE    PRISONERS 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

MRS.    NEAL. 

*f  The  life  of  woman  is  full  of  woe, 
•  Toiling  on  and  on  and  on, 
With  breaking  heart  and  tearful  eyes 

And  silent  lips,  and  in  the  soul 
The  secret  longings  that  arise, 

Which  this  world  never  satisfies  ! 
Some  more,  some  less,  but  of  the  whole 
Not  one  quite  happy,  no,  not  one." 

Golden  Legend. 

ON  entering  the  dining-room  the  next  morning,  Linda  found 
the  breakfast-table  arranged    for  but  one.      "Ah,"   she 
thought,    "  mother  is  off   already  in  search  of  my  new 
home." 

"Gude  mornin'  to  yez,  Miss  Linda,"  said  Bridget,  entering 
with  the  breakfast.  "I  hope  yez  have  a  gude  appetite  this 
mornin'." 

"From  the  number  of  delicacies  you  have  prepared,  you 
surely  expected  I  would  have,  Bridget." 

"Well,  Miss  Linda,  yer  mither  tould  me  to  give  yez  yer 
breakfast,  and  thin  hilp  yez  pack  yer  trunk.  Now,  that  car- 
tainly  maines  lavin';  and  if  yez  be  goin*  to  lave  us,  Bid  '11  give 
yez  all  yez  can  ate  the  rist  o'  yer  stay.  It 's  not  for  me  to  be 
axin'  questions,  but  if  yez  be  goin'  to  lave  us,  bad  luck  '11  cum 
to  this  house." 

"  Oh,  no,  Bridget ;  there  will  nothing  serious  happen.  I 
am  only  going  to  Nevada  for  a  while." 

"Now  yez  mark  me  words,  something  will  happen!     Yer 
10*  H 


114  FREE    PRISONERS. 

mither  got  to  the  gate,  and  she  forgot  her  gloves,  and  .back  she 
cum.  This  be  Saturday  mornin',  and  bad  luck  cums  to  all  thim 
as  turns  back  on  a  Saturday  mornin'.  Yez  may  smile,  Miss 
Linda,  but  I  've  lived  to  see  it  mesilf.  There  was  me  Uncle  Pat 
Mallerry's  boy.  He  started  to  work  on  a  Saturday  mornin', 
and  whin  he  got  to  the  door  he  cums  back,  and  says  he  : 
'  Mither,  I  forgot  to  tell  yez,  I  think  the  dapple  pony's  gettin'  a 
corn  on  his  right  fore-foot. '  '  Be  off  wid  yez,  ye  young  spalpeen, 
that  yez  would  turn  back  on  a  Saturday  mornin'  to  tell  yer  ould 
mither  that  the  dapple  pony's  gettin'  a  corn.  Bad  Uick  to  yer 
brainless  pate,  that  yez  have  no  better  sinse  than  that,'  and,  will 
yez  belave  it,  Miss  Linda,  before  the  sun  had  set  that  day,  Bar 
ney  Mallerry  cum  home  with  his  neck  broke  short  off,  and  it 
was  the  dapple  pony  as  throwed  him  on  a  pile  o'  stones.  If 
it  don't  cum  to-day,  nor  to-morrow,  the  bad  luck  's  overtaken 
yer  mither,  and  ye  '11  live  to  see  it." 

Bridget's  eloquence  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of 
Nellie  Gray's  smiling  face  at  the  door,  with  her  habitual  pleas 
ant  greeting : 

"  Good-morning,  Linda.  I  have  come  to  stay  with  you  until 
you  leave  us,  dear ;  that  is,  if  you  are  still  expecting  to  go  to 
day." 

"I  know  nothing  more  than  what  I  told  you  last  evening, 
excepting  that  mother  left  home  early  this  morning,"  answered 
Linda,  warmly  returning  Nellie's  affectionate  embrace.  "  I 
imagine  she  has  gone  to  Nevada  in  search  of  my  new  abiding 
place,  and  shall  make  my  preparations  for  leaving  as  directed. 
She  seldom  changes  her  mind." 

"Then,  if  you  *must  leave  us,  I  will  assist  you  all  I  can, 
although  I  would  so  much  rather  you  were  not  going.  We  will 
miss  you  sadly. ' ' 

While  they  were  arranging  for  Linda's  departure,  a  carriage 


FREE    PRISONERS.  115 

drove  up  to  a  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  Nevada,  which  stood 
in  the  midst  of  a  neatly-kept  garden.  A  few  words  from  the 
driver,  and  Mrs.  Wetherell  alighted,  hastily  approached  the 
door,  and  rapped  loudly.  In  an  instant  it  was  opened  by  a 
trim,  motherly-looking  woman  in  deep  mourning.  Mrs.  Weth 
erell  gave  a  searching  glance  of  admiration  before  speaking ; 
so  did  every  one,  for  the  first  time  seeing  Widow  Neal.  She 
was  of  medium  height  and  stout,  with  quite  a  round  face ;  her 
complexion  still  transparent  and  her  cheeks  rosy,  notwithstand 
ing  forty  years  of  cares  and  sorrows  were  indelibly  stamped 
upon  her  sweet  face.  But  the  great  feature,  that  made  all 
look  twice  and  thrice,  was  the  profusion  of  wavy  white  locks, 
loosely  but  neatly  caught  back  with  a  band  of  black  velvet. 

"Mrs.  Neal,  I  presume?"  asked  Mrs.  Wetherell,  very  re 
spectfully. 

"Yes,  madam,  I  am  Mrs.  Neal." 

"I  was  told  you  wanted  a  lady  boarder.  Was  I  rightly  in 
formed  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  madam,  you  were."  Mrs.  Neal  spoke  slowly,  and  her 
voice  was  very  sweet — not  one  of  those  simpering,  lisping,  drawl 
ing  vocal  instruments  in  use  by  many  women  who  play  at  being 
sweet  and  fascinating  for  company  or  holidays,  but  a  full,  clear, 
well-modulated  voice,  that  was  always  in  tune  and  never  jarred. 

Mrs.  Wetherell  looked  steadily  into  Mrs.  Neal's  honest  brown 
eyes,  as  she  said  : 

"  I  have  a  daughter,  almost  eighteen  years  old,  whose  health 
has  not  been  very  good  in  Grass  Valley.  If  I  can  find  a  desira 
ble  place  in  Nevada,  I  wish  her  to  remain  here  a  few  months." 

"  Although  I  would  be  very  happy  to  have  a  young  person 
in  the  house  with  me,  I  fear  my  home  would  not  be  desirable 
for  her.  She  might  find  it  lonely,  as  I  go  out  seldom,  and  am 
a  stranger  here." 


Il6  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  That  is  rather  an  advantage  than  otherwise  in  this  case. 
My  daughter  is  naturally  quiet  and  not  inclined  to  visit  a 
great  deal.  I  was  told  you  were  a  widow ;  have  you  no  chil 
dren  ?" 

"No,  madam." 

The  eloquent  regret  expressed  in  those  two  words  did  not 
even  escape  the  hard-hearted,  impenetrable  Mrs.  Wetherell. 

"I  had  an  adopted  son,  who  was  to  have  met  me  here,  but 
my  coming  was  delayed  by  the  illness  and  death  of  my  mother. 
Although  I  have  been  here  two  months,  and  made  every  effort, 
I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  find  him." 

Mrs.  Wetherell  was  little  interested  in  others'  disappoint 
ments  or  troubles,  and  thinking  Mrs.  Neal  about  to  give  her  a 
detailed  account  of  family  distresses,  at  once  entered  upon  the 
business  of  her  visit,  and  everything  was  soon  satisfactorily 
arranged.  . 

Agreeing  to  send  her  daughter  that  day,  Mrs.  Wetherell 
arose  to  take  her  departure.  Handing  Mrs.  Neal  a  card,  she 
said:  "I  leave  you  this,  that  you  may  know  the  name  of  the 
young  lady  you  are  to  expect."  With  a  stately  "  Good-morn 
ing,  madam,"  she  took  her  seat  in  the  carriage,  and  was  soon 
out  of  sight. 

Mrs.  Neal  closed  the  door  quietly,  thinking,  "I  am  almost 
sorry  I  agreed  to  take  that  woman's  daughter.  There  is  some 
thing  terribly  cold  and  repellent  about  her;  but  then  the 
daughter  may  be  quite  different.  It  is  to  be  hoped  so,  at  least. 
There  is  little  in  a  name ;  still,  let  me  see.  '  Mrs.  Richard 
Wetherell.'  Can  it  be  possible  ?  " 

The  card  dropped  from  her  hand.  It  seemed  as  though  an 
adder  had  stung  her  to  the  heart  and  drawn  all  the  life-blood, 
she  sat  so  motionless,  looking  into  space  —  the  space  of  many 
years.  Instead  of  the  rosy,  cheerful  Mrs.  Neal  of  the  few 


FREE    PRISONERS.  117 

minutes  before,  there  sat  a  spectre,  whose  pale  and  anguish- 
stricken  countenance  told  how  the  hair  became  so  hoary  long 
before  the  time  for  frost  on  her  brow.  Over  that  scrap  of 
paper  on  the  floor  passed  volumes  of  unwritten  history  — 
panoramas  of  years. 

"What  a  relentless  fate!"  said  the  widow,  solemnly. 
"  Can  there  be  no  mercy  in  my  God  ?  I  thought  my  hopes 
and  joys  and  very  life  had  been  rotting  in  the  past.  So  many 
years  their  ashes  were  scattered  to  the  winds,  that  not  a  trace 
even  of  sorrow  at  their  having  existed  could  be  found  on  the 
earth.  I  awake  to  find  the  outer  man  and  the  inner  man  may 
change,  but  the  feelings,  though  changed  with  all  the  changes, 
vibrate  to  the  old  touch  and  shudder  at  the  old  agony. 

"The  Agnes  Neal  of  twenty-four  years  ago  has  long  been 
forgotten, -and  who  would  recognize  her  in  the  Widow  Neal  of 
to-day,  with  these  gray  locks  ?  Still,  there  is  an  elastic  cord 
between  the  young  Agnes  and  the  old  —  the  past  and  the  pres 
ent —  that  bends  to  all  oppressions,  and  stretches  over  every 
curve,  yet  never  breaks. 

"I  thought  my  happy  young  life  was  buried  forever,  and 
out  of  the  fragments  of  what  was  once  lovely  I  could  make  a 
new  woman,  known  only  to  myself —  nobler  and  better,  if  pos 
sible,  from  much  endurance  and  hopeful  resignation ;  but  I 
find  no  workman,  however  skilful,  can  tear  down  a  noble  edifice 
and  build  another  of  the  old  materials,  and  make  it  strong  and 
beautiful  as  it  was  in  the  beginning. 

"After  all  my  studied  self-control,  my  patient  longing  and 
waiting  for  forgetfulness  of  the  past,  a  simple  scrap  of  paper 
tears  open  my  heart  wounds  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  they 
were  lacerated,  and  in  my  desolate  future  leaves  Hope  a  bleeding 
corpse  as  my  companion. 

"  How  can  I  take  their  child  into  my  house?     Their  child  ! 


Il8  FREE    PRISONERS. 

How  can  I  prevent  her  coming?  I  have  no  messenger,  and  if 
I  had,  where  could  I  send  him  ?  My  promise  is  given  ;  I  will 
keep  my  word.  It  may  not  be  for  long.  If  it  should  be  the 
daughter  of  the  old  Richard  Wetherell  of  years  gone  by,  he 
will  never  recognize  me,  perhaps  never  see  me." 

The  widow  passed  into  a  cozy  little  bedroom  and  mechan 
ically  arranged  it  for  Linda's  reception.  She  was  still  pale,  and 
the  tempest  that  had  swept  over  her  soul  had  left  deep  traces ; 
but  those  who  battle  always  with  storms  brave  the  tempests,  too. 
Mrs.  Neal's  face,  though  paler  and  sadder  than  usual,  again 
wore  the  peaceful  calm  of  Christian  resignation. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

EYES   THAT    BESPEAK   STORMS. 

IT  was  past  noon  when  Mrs.  Wetherell  alighted  at  her  own 
door.  On  entering  the  house,  she  spoke  politely  to  Mrs. 

Gray,  and  also  to  Walter,  who  had  come  to  say  good-by. 
To  Linda  she  simply  said  : 

"Linda,  the  carriage  is  at  the  door,  and  the  driver  knows 
where  to  take  you."  then  passed  into  her  own  room. 

Mr.  Gray,  with  the  little  ones,  was  at  the  gate  to  meet  them  ; 
and  a  stranger  would  have  thought  Linda  the  pet  of  a  loving 
household,  about  to  leave  home,  rather  than  a  sad-hearted  girl 
forcibly  sent  away.  Although  they  did  not  see  her,  Mrs. 
Wetherell  stood  at  the  window  watching  the  group  so  atten 
tively  that  not  a  single  glance  escaped  her  hawk-like  eyes.  She 
noted  every  movement  with  greedy  pleasure,  particularly  the 
long  pressure  of  the  hand  and  tender  good-by  of  Walter. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  I  IQ 

Well  for  them  they  saw  not  the  flash  of  her  black  eyes,  and 
knew  not  a  storm-cloud  was  gathering  to  burst  with  all  the  fury 
of  a  vengeful  woman  over  their  happiness.  May  the  gentle 
winds  of  heaven  waft  it  beyond  their  heads. 

The  ride  seemed  interminable  to  Linda,  not  knowing  her 
destination  ;  and  she  was  too  proud  to  expose  her  ignorance  to 
the  driver  by  asking  questions ;  so  it  was  with  a  strange  mix 
ture  of  relief  and  dread  she  ascended  the  steps  of  her  future 
home.  Before  she  had  time  to  rap,  the  door  was  opened  by 
Mrs.  Neal.  For  an  instant,  they  silently  regarded  each  other, 
and  during  that  interval,  by  one  of  those  strange,  magnetic  in 
fluences  most  of  us  experience,  but  none  can  define,  they  were 
friends. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  arrived,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Neal,  putting 
her  arm  affectionately  about  Linda,  and  kissing  her  as  quietly 
and  motherly  as  if  she  had  known  her  always. 

Sometimes  pleasant  surprises  are  as  great  a  shock  as  unpleasant 
ones,  and  Linda,  who  had  expected  only  unhappiness  after  her 
removal  from  home  and  friends,  was  so  overcome  by  the  kind 
greeting,  that  she  burst  into  tears  as  she  returned  the  motherly 
embrace. 

"  My  dear  child,  do  not  cry,"  said  Mrs.  Neal,  as  she  led  her 
to  a  sofa,  and  drew  her  head  upon  her  shoulder.  "  I  can  readily 
understand ;  you  must  feel  badly  at  leaving  home,  and  I  fear 
you  will  not  be  happy  here.  It  was  unfortunate  your  mother 
insisted  upon  your  coming.  My  humble  home  will  be  entirely 
too  lonely  for  you,  with  no  one  but  me." 

"  No  one  here  but  you  and  me  ?  "  asked  Linda. 

"No  one,  my  dear,"  answered  Mrs.  Neal,  in  her  sadly-sweet 
way. 

"Oh,  how  delightful  that  will  be  !  "  exclaimed  Linda,  smil 
ing  through  her  tears. 


I2O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Mrs.  Neal,  in  amazement,  asked :  "  Did  your  mother  not 
tell  you  how  lonely  this  place  would  be  ?  " 

"  My  mother  told  me  nothing.  I  had  no  idea  where  I  was 
going  until  I  arrived." 

"  That  is  strange,"  said  Mrs.  Neal,  thoughtfully,  raising  her 
anxious  eyes  to  Linda's  face. 

"It  is  not  half  so  strange  as  many  other  things  she  does," 
said  Linda,  bitterly.  "  Did  she  tell  you  she  was  sending  me 
away  from  home  forever  ?  ' ' 

"No,  dear,  she  did  not." 

"  Then,  before  you  open  your  noble  heart  so  generously  to 
take  me  into  your  dear  little  home,  it  is  only  just  to  tell  you 
why  and  how  I  am  sent  here." 

Linda  did  not  usually  form  sudden  attachments,  but  with 
Mrs.  Neal  it  proved  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight.  Not  a  strange 
thing  either,  for  every  one  who  knew  Mrs.  Neal  loved  her. 

The  clock  struck  six  when  she  withdrew  her  hand  from  Lin 
da's  and  imprinted  a  motherly  kiss  upon  her  forehead. 

"You  are  young,  child,  to  have  such  sorrow;  but  you  will 
bear  it  bravely,  for  you  have  real  womanly  nobility  of  character. 
Troubles  kill  weak  women,  but  they  strengthen  the  strong. 
Those  who  suffer  intensely  enjoy  intensely,  and  can  better  com 
prehend  this  wonderful  world,  with  its  multitudes  of  human 
beings,  all  suffering  and  enduring.  It  is  a  divine  gift,  to  be 
able  to  suffer  and  accept  it  as  the  chastening  rod  of  a  merciful 
Father.  If  the  burden  is  heavy,  the  reward  is  great.  It  may 
be  long  in  coming,  but  it  will  come,  although  how  or  when  we 
can  none  of  us  tell.  At  thirty  years  of  age,  my  hair  was  as 
white  as  it  is  to-day.  Some  time  I  will  tell  you  what  made  it 
white,  for  one's  troubles  are  easier  borne  when  one  knows  others 
have  suffered  more.  I  have  always  been  very  grateful  that  my 
hair  alone  was  changed  and  my  mind  left  active  and  vigorous. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  121 

No  matter  how  hard  our  trials  or  numerous  our  afflictions,  we 
can  always  find  something  left  to  be  grateful  for  ;  and  the  little 
blessings  hidden  away  from  human  sight  by  sorrows  are  doubly 
sweet. ' ' 

"  Oh,  you  are  so  noble  and  good  !  "  burst  forth  Linda,  grasp 
ing  both  her  hands.  "  Everything  seems  easier  to  bear  already. 
And  you  have  no  one  to  care  for  but  this  adopted  son,  and  you 
cannot  find  him.  Will  you  not  let  me  love  you,  and  be  a 
daughter  to  you  ?  and  please  love  me  a  little  in  return.  I  have 
always  yearned  so  for  a  mother's  love." 

"Yes,  dear,  you  shall  be  a  daughter  to  me  in  my  loneliness, 
and  I  will  be  a  mother  to  you. ' ' 

The  promise  was  sealed  with  a  kiss  and  embrace;  and  as 
Linda  raised  her  head  from  her  new  mother's  shoulder,  she 
asked,  timidly,  "  May  I  call  you  Mother  Neal?  " 

"  Yes,  child,  what  you  choose ;  but  it  is  past  our  supper  hour, 
my  dear,  and  I  will  leave  you  to  amuse  yourself  while  I  go  to 
prepare  it." 

"  But  if  I  am  to  be  your  daughter,  you  must  let  me  share 
your  labors." 

"As  you  like,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Neal,  smiling.  "My 
daughter  must  feel  perfectly  at  home,  that  she  may  never  weary 
of  her  humble  choice." 

So  sweetly  began  Linda's  residence  with  Mrs.  Neal.  Her 
first  letters  to  Walter  and  Nellie,  instead  of  being  homesick, 
tear-stained  epistles,  were  simply  happy  eulogies  on  Mrs.  Neal 
and  her  new  home,  ending  by  saying :  "I  know  you  will  love 
her,  too,  for  you  cannot  help  it." 

Not  a  week  had  yet  elapsed  when  Linda  was  surprised  by  a 
visit  from  her  faithful  friend  Mrs.  Gray,  accompanied  by  Wal 
ter.  Mrs.  Neal's  welcome  to  them  was  so  quiet  and  sincere, 
every  movement  and  every  word  so  subdued  and  ladylike,  that 
ii 


122  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Walter  and  Nellie  did  just  as  Linda  said  they  would,   "loved 
her  too." 

As  soon  as  Nellie  and  Linda  were  left  alone,  Nellie  put  her 
arms  about  Linda  and  embraced  her  warmly,  saying :  "  Walter 
has  told  me  all  about  it,  dear,  on  the  way  coming  up  here,  and 
I  am  so  delighted.  I  will  visit  with  Mrs.  Neal,  who  is  just  as 
lovely  as  she  can  be ;  and  you  shall  take  a  long  ride  with  Wal 
ter.  I  told  him  so  before  we  arrived ;  so  it  is  all  arranged.  I 
am  very  happy  to  welcome  you  to  my  heart,  no  longer  as  one 
of  the  sweetest  and  best  of  friends,  but  as  the  truest,  tenderest 
of  sisters." 

There  was  nothing  definite  about  Ben's  trial,  and,  as  Walter 
had  advised  Linda,  she  had  taken  no  further  measures  to  see 
him.  Walter's  visit  to  Nevada  was  as  much  to  the  sheriff  as 
Linda,  to  get  permission  for  her  to  visit  her  brother.  This  he 
readily  obtained,  but  was  told  the  keeper  of  the  jail  must  be 
present  during  the  visits,  as  the  building  was  a  poor  structure, 
and  almost  any  simple  carpenter's  tool  would  be  sufficient,  if 
dexterously  used,  to  effect  an  escape.  They  could  not  keep  too 
strict  watch,  and  he  would  not  show  any  favors. 

Linda  could  visit  Ben  once  every  week,  and  she  was  delighted 
with  the  privilege  on  any  terms. 

After  the  errand  to  the  sheriff  was  accomplished,  Walter 
took  her  for  a  short  ride  over  the  mountain  roads,  but  it  proved, 
as  Nellie  had  previously  told  her,  "a  nice  long  one."  It  was 
a  glorious  day  to  Linda.  The  air  was  so  balmy  and  fresh,  as 
they  swept  along  the  mountain  side,  that  it  wafted  all  weariness 
and  sadness  from  her  heart. 

We  will  not  mock  the  sweet  felicity  of  our  lovers,  by  recount 
ing  the  many  nothings  that,  combined,  made  up  their  perfect 
happiness  during  the  fleeting  hours,  as  they  wound  in  and  out 


FREE    PRISONERS.  123 

of  those  romantic  by-ways  in  the  mountains.  Lovers'  talk 
should  be  as  unintelligible  as  the  cooings  of  turtle-doves,  for 
they  will  say  silly  things  sometimes.  Yet  they  are  wise  in  their 
silliness ;  for,  after  all,  true  wisdom  consists  in  being  happy — 
in  extracting  happiness  from  all  the  sweets  in  life,  and  casting 
aside  the  bitter.  Many  seem  to  hunt  out  the  bitter  drops  and 
let  the  sweet  ones  go  untasted.  To  love  deeply  and  fondly  may 
be  silly,  but  the  wise  who  ignore  such  foolishness,  lose  the  real 
essence  of  life,  for  the  only  approach  to  perfect  happiness  is 
the  repose  of  two  souls  blended  into  one  by  pure,  unalloyed 
affection  and  deep,  tender  sympathy. 

Linda's  mother  had  sent  her  away  from  home,  and  refused 
to  see  her.  Her  father  was  at  his  mill,  a  few  miles  distant  from 
Nevada,  and  had  not  yet  visited  her  in  her  new  home.  Her 
brother  was  awaiting  the  judgment  of  the  law  for  the  crime 
which  he  was  accused  of  perpetrating.  Walter  argued  eloquently 
that  her  lonely  position  was  not  befitting  a  young  lady  of  her 
age,  and  wished  their  marriage  hastened  on  that  account.  He 
told  her  he  was  building  a  cottage  near  George's,  and  they 
would  be  ever  so  happy  and  contented  there.  Still,  Linda 
would  not  consent  to  an  immediate  marriage.  "Wait,  Walter, 
until  Ben  is  liberated,"  was  her  constant  plea. 

When  evening  twilight  crept  over  the  earth,  Linda  was  once 
more  alone,  looking  out  over  the  dull  little  town,  surrounded 
by  its  lofty,  wild  mountains.  She  felt  lonelier  than  ever.  Some 
times,  when  happiness  pays  us  fleeting  visits,  it  leaves  us  all  the 
more  wretched  after  it  has  gone. 

She  went  softly  to  the  sofa,  where  Mrs.  Neal  had  lain  down, 
and  crept  closely  to  her  side.  That  wise,  good  woman  knew 
Linda's  heart  better  than  she  did  herself,  and,  as  she  gently 
caressed  her,  talked  of  her  absent  friends,  that  she  might  pour 
forth  the  weight  at  her  heart.  When  absent  from  those  we  love, 
it  seems  to  bring  us  nearer,  when  we  can  talk  of  them  freely. 


124  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

IN    PRISON. 

nnHE  sheriff  had  granted  Linda  permission  to  visit  her 
brother  the  next  day.  Accompanied  by  Mrs.  Neal,  she 
carried  the  treasure  in  her  hand,  addressed  to  Jake  Sniffens, 
that  was  to  admit  her  that  day  of  each  week  to  see  Ben. 

She  dreaded  meeting  the  rough  Jake,  who  had  so  grossly  in 
sulted  her  on  her  previous  visit ;  still,  her  heart  beat  lightly, 
as  she  ase-ended  the  steps  and  knocked  at  the  iron-barred  door. 
The  same  rough  voice  called  out  from  behind  the  grating : 

' '  Who  '  s  there  ?     What  do  you  •  want  ? ' ' 

Linda  trembled  at  the  very  sound  of  the  voice,  but  answered 
firmly : 

"I  have  permission  from  the  sheriff  to  see  Mr.  Wetherell." 

"  Certainly,  Miss,"  said  Jake,  politely,  taking  the  permit  and 
reading  it.  "Walk  in." 

"You  were  not  so  accommodating  last  week,"  said  Linda, 
smiling. 

"No? "asked  Jake,  astonished.  "Oh,  I'm  always  accom- 
modatin'  to  the  ladies.  If  any  fellow  wouldn't  let  you  in  last 
week,  it  wa'nt  Jake  Sniffens,  or  I  'm  a  Dutchman." 

Linda  made  no  attempt  to  convince  him  of  the  veracity  of 
her  statement,  but  was  pleased  to  find  the  present  Jake  so  much 
more  amiable  than  the  former  —  owing,  of  course,  to  the 
sheriff's  pass.  She  thought  truly,  "Telle  est  la  vie." 

Jake  went  on  talking.  "You  know  the  regulations,  I  sup 
pose.  I  have  to  keep  my  eye  on  you  all  the  time  you  are  visit 
ing  him." 

"  Certainly.     I  expect  that,"  answered  Linda. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  125 

Jake  disappeared,  but  soon  returned  followed  by  Ben.  It 
was  a  sad  meeting.  He  and  Linda  both  wept  like  children, 
and  but  for  Jake's  rough  comfort  they  would  have  had  a  mourn 
ful  visit.  After  he  thought  they  had  wept  about  enough,  he 
burst  out  in  his  rough  way : 

"  Here  !  no  more  of  that  nonsense.  That 's  the*worst  I  ever 
did  see." 

It  was  not  delicate  sympathy,  but  it  had  the  better  effect  of 
bringing  them  to  their  senses.  Mrs.  Neal  sat  apart,  and  tried 
to  entertain  Jake  while  Linda  talked  with  Ben,  who  was  so  low- 
spirited  that  it  required  all  her  self-possession  to  divert  and 
cheer  him.  As  she  rose  to  leave,  he  said  : 

"  I  wish  they  would  take  me  out  and  hang  me,  Linda.  I  am 
a  living  disgrace  to  you." 

"Don't- talk  so,  Ben,"  she  answered,  tenderly.  "This,  I 
am  convinced,  is  your  misfortune,  and  not  your  fault.  I  know 
you  are  innocent,  and  no  matter  about  the  disgrace,  dear.  You 
will  soon  be  liberated,  and  then  all  the  world  will  know  of  your 
innocence." 

"Oh,  Linda,  you  know  little  of  the  law  and  the  courts. 
Innocent  or  guilty,  the  man  has  sworn  that  I  robbed  him.  Un 
fortunately,  I  was  out  hunting  at  the  time,  and  I  can  bring  no 
evidence  in  favor  of  my  statements.  All  is  against  me.  I  will 
be  tried,  found  guilty,  and  sent  to  State's  prison  for  life,  or 
until  life  is  not  worth  having." 

"  Do  not  be  so  desponding,  dear  brother.  Can  you  not  get 
away  ? ' '  This  was  asked  sotto  voce. 

"I  might,  Linda;  but  I  would  not  go  if  the  door  was  left 
open  for  me." 

"  Think  it  over,  dear,  and  I  will  come  to  see  you  every  week, 
on  this  same  day. ' ' 

"  Here  !  "  exclaimed  Jake,  "  that  whisperin'  won't  pay.  You 
ii  * 


126  FREE    PRISONERS. 

two  can't  put  yer  heads  together,  and  plot  treason  against  Jake 
Sniffens,  with  him  a  settin'  here  a  lookin'  you  out  of  counte 
nance.  ' ' 

In  a  low  whisper  he  added,  "A  fellow  must  say  sweet  things 
sometimes ;  but  I  think  the  resurrection  would  overtake  me,  a 
settin'  here  a  starin',  if  I  had  to  stare  that  ere  hard  crust  of 
Satan  out  of  countenance.  He  's  the  worst  I  ever  did  see  —  he 
plays  so  innocent  like." 

Jake  heard  all  the  rest  of  the  conversation,  and  the  visit  was 
finally  ended.  With  a  promise  to  return  the  same  day  the  next 
week,  Linda  took  her  leave. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

• 

THE  ANONYMOUS   LETTER. 

WHEN  Walter  returned  to  his  office  after  his  visit  to  Linda, 
he  found  a  letter  addressed  to  him  lying  on  his  desk. 
He  tore  it  open  hastily,  and  read : 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  —  True  to  her  family  instinct,  your  sweet 
heart,  Linda  Wetherell,  is  false  to  you.  She  is  wholly  unworthy 
of  you.  Within  ten  days  she  left  her  home,  was  gone  all  night 
and  until  a  late  hour  the  next  day,  when  she  was  seen,  by  the 
writer  of  this,  parting  from  her.  lover  at  the  outskirts  of  Grass 
Valley.  I  write  you  this  because  I  am 

YOUR  FRIEND. 

After  reading  it,  Walter  threw  the  note  down,  as  if  it  was 
unworthy  any  notice.  He  asked  himself:  "Why  should  I  re 
gard  such  a  vile,  little,  nameless  epistle,  when  Linda  is  my  be 
trothed  wife,  and  we  are  soon  to  be  married?  Have  I  not 


FREE    PRISONERS. 

known  her  better  than  any  one  else,  and  watched  her  closely, 
too,  for  over  a  year,  and  she  has  proved  herself  as  pure,  good, 
and  unselfish  as  any  woman  possibly  could  ?  ' ' 

He  took  up  the  note  and  read  it  over  again.  He  paced  the 
floor,  trying  to  think  of  Linda  and  his  approaching  marriage  — 
hoping  those  bright  thoughts,  that  had  so  completely  filled  his 
mind  one  hour  previous,  would  dispel  all  gloomy  doubts ;  but, 
no  !  ever  and  anon  the  contents  of  that  note  would  flash  across 
his  mind.  He  tried  to  think  when  Linda  could  possibly  have 
been  away  from  home  in  that  manner,  when  suddenly  he  re 
membered  that  Mrs.  Wetherell  had  been  in  search  of  her  at  the 
cottage  one  morning,  the  week  before,  and  greatly  annoyed 
Nellie  by  insisting  upon  her  being  there. 

"Of  course  Nellie  knows  where  Linda  was,"  he  said,  half 
aloud.  "I  will  go  up  immediately  and  ask  her,  for  this  thing 
annoys  me  more  than  I  like  to  admit." 

He  hastened  to  the  cottage,  and  assuming  a  careless  tone, 
asked: 

"  By  the  way,  Nellie,  did  Linda  tell  you  where  she  had  been 
that  day  her  mother  came  heref  in  search  of  her  ? ' ' 

"No,"  answered  Nellie,  carelessly,  and  went  on  with  her 
reading. 

Walter  felt  more  annoyed  than  ever.  He  walked  to  the 
window  and  stood  nervously  tapping  the  glass. 

Nellie  noticed  his  uneasiness,  and  laying  aside  her  book, 
asked : 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  know?  " 

"For  no  reason  in  particular,"  he  said,  shortly;  but  his 
manner  and  tone  belied  him. 

"  Yes,  it  is  something  in  particular,  Walter,  for  you  look  very 
unhappy.  Can  I  not  help  you  ? ' ' 

Nellie  had  a  fond  way  of  saying  things  that  comforted  one 


128  FREE    PRISONERS. 

amazingly.  Walter  drew  the  note  from  his  pocket,  and  handed 
it  to  her,  without  saying. a  word. 

After  reading  it,  she  looked  up  and  smiled,  as  she  asked  :  "  Is 
this  all?" 

"  Is  that  all !  "  said  Walter,  astonished. 

"  Well,  Walter  !  I  thought  you  were  more  of  a  man.  If  I 
were  engaged  to  Linda  Wetherell,  and  received  a  hundred  such 
miserable,  intriguing  notes,  from  a  hundred  different  persons,  I 
would  burn  them  all,  and  go  and  ask  Linda  where  she  had  been, 
and  feel  sure  she  would  tell  me  the  truth." 

"But,  Nellie,"  persisted  Walter,  "the  one  who  wrote  that 
note  seems  to  know  more  of  my  future  wife  than  I  do." 

"Walter,  her  mother  wrote  that  note,"  said  Nellie,  de 
cidedly. 

"Impossible!  Nellie.  I  know  her  mother  is  a  very  bad 
woman,  but  she  surely  could  not  be  such  a  fiend  as  to  interfere 
in  that  unprincipled  way,  when  she  must  know  her  daughter 
is  honorably  engaged  to  be  married.  On  the  contrary,  I  should 
think  she  would  be  pleased  to  get  rid  of  her." 

"  She  has  cast  her  out  already,  and  considers  she  has  got  rid 
of  her,"  answered  Nellie.  "Besides,  Linda  told  me  long  ago 
her  mother  had  said  she  would  make  her  miserable  all  the  rest 
of  her  life,  if  she  refused  to  marry  Major  Warren.  Linda 
answered,  she  would  be  as  miserable  as  she  possibly  could  be 
if  she  married  him ;  so  she  preferred  being  made  miserable 
by  her  mother.  Mrs.  Wetherell  said,  you  shall  be  miserable 
enough,  if  you  leave  it  to  me." 

"  I  wish  Linda  had  told  me  that,"  said  Walter.  "  I  do  not 
feel  quite  satisfied  about  this  matter." 

"Then  go  to  Linda  to-morrow  morning,  and  have  her  ex 
plain  her  absence.  If  she  cannot  explain  it  satisfactorily,  then 
there  will  be  sufficient  time  to  doubt  her." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  I2Q 

"I  will  do  as  you  advise,  Nell,"  said  Walter,  better  satis 
fied.  "  I  believe  you  have  more  good  sense  than  any  other 
woman  in  the  world." 

"Excepting  Linda,"  smiled  Nellie.  "You  will  find  her  as 
sensible,  faithful,  and  true  as  any  woman  in  the  world1  can  be." 

The  next  morning,  when  Walter  awoke,  sweet  sleep  had 
entirely  dispelled  the  gloomy  doubts  of  the  night  before,  and 
he  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  his  foolishness.  He  told  Nellie  so, 
and  requested  her,  as  a  special  favor,  never  to  mention  the  sub 
ject  to  Linda,  nor  question  her  with  regard  to  her  absence. 
He  felt  he  could  and  would  trust-  her  implicitly,  but  if  ever 
anything  else  disturbed  his  peace  of  mind,  he  would  go  to  her 
and  have  her  explain  all. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE  LOST  WIFE   FOUND   AND   LOST. 

T   INDA  had  gone  to  spend  a  few  hours  with  Ben,  for  Jake 
[^  Sniffens   had   become  very  lenient,  exercising  great   pa 
tience  toward  her,  in  permitting  her  visits  to  be  prolonged 
into  hours. 

Mrs.  Neal's  door  stood  open,  and  the  soft  breezes,  laden  with 
the  perfume  of  honeysuckles  and  roses,  pervaded  the  cottage. 
There  were  footsteps  on  the  gravel  walk,  then  the  shadow  of  a 
man,  and  Mrs.  Neal,  raising  her  eyes  from  her  work,  saw  Cap 
tain  Wetherell  standing  in  her  cottage  door.  She  had  often 
seen  him  without  being  seen,  and  had  so  dexterously  avoided 
all  possibility  of  meeting,  that  she  had  ceased  to  dread  it. 
Now,  from  her  far-off  dreaming  and  security,  she  was  suddenly 

I 


I3O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

recalled  by  the  presence  of  that  man,  face  to  face,  in  her 
cottage  door.  She  gave  a  low  cry  of  anguish,  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  the  ashen  lips  said,  slowly : 

''Richard  Neal !  " 

The  Captain  stood  aghast.  He  staggered  to  a  chair  and 
dropped  into  it  heavily.  His  eyes  never  left  Mrs.  Neal's 
face —  they  stared  blankly,  apparently  seeing  nothing. 

Mrs.  Neal,  with  the  pallor  of  death,  stood  confronting  him. 
Recovering  herself,  she  said  mechanically : 

"  Captain  Wetherell,  Miss  Linda  is  not  at  home." 

She  was  leaving  the  room,  when  the  Captain  sprang  forward 
and  grasped  her  hand,  exclaiming  : 

"Agnes,  for  God's  sake,  stay." 

She  tried  to  free  herself  from  his  firm  hold,  but  he  was  the 
stronger,  and  held  her  like  a  vise,  as  he  hoarsely  whispered : 

"Agnes,  I  have  searched  the  world  over  for  you.  Listen  to 
me  one  moment." 

"Captain  Wetherell,  I  cannot  listen.  You  and  I  parted 
years  ago  —  parted  forever !  You  betrayed  me ;  you  acted  a 
coward's  part.  No  explanations  will  avail.  All  reference  to 
that  wretched  past  is  inexpressibly  bitter.  Let  it  rest. ' ' 

"  I  know  I  did  wrong,  Agnes,  very  wrong.     I  admit  it  all." 

"Wrong !  "  said  Mrs.  Neal,  bitterly.  "  Wrong  is  too  mild 
a  term  for  a  crime  like  yours." 

"  Crime  ?    What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Agnes  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  stand  face  to  face  with  me,  Captain  Wether 
ell,  and  blandly  ask  what  I  mean  by  terming  your  villany 
crime?  You,  who  came  to  my  father's  house,  received  his  hos 
pitalities,  won  his  daughter's  love,  and  took  her  before  the  altar 
to  have  that  aged  man  bless  his  child  as  your  wife ;  then,  on 
pretext  of  business  that  kept  you  roaming  about,  left  me  at 
home,  in  our  out-of-the-way  village,  until  my  father  died,  when 


FREE    PRISONERS.  13! 

you  took  us  to  New  Orleans.  I  was  your  happy,  trusting,  lov 
ing  wife,  and  bore  you  two  children  —  and  then  —  and  then  — 
I  discovered  you  had  another  wife,  and  other  children  who  bore 
your  name,  and  I  and  mine  were  aliens." 

"Stop!"  cried  the  Captain,  fiercely.  "I  did  act  like  a 
scoundrel,  but  not  toward  you.  You  were,  and  are,  my  wife. 
My  name  is  Neal  —  Richard  Neal.  There  is  a  Mrs.  Wetherell, 
but  there  is  no  such  person  as  Richard  Wetherell." 

Mrs.  Neal  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  being  that  man's  wife 
—  the  man  whose  very  name  had  become  synonymous  with 
everything  wretched  and  vile,  the  destroying  demon  of  her 
peace  and  happiness.  She  knew  not  what  to  think,  much  less 
to  say  ;  besides,  she  could  not  place  any  confidence  in  a  single 
word  he  uttered. 

"  No  such  man  as  Richard  Wetherell?  "  she  asked,  dreamily, 
as  if  she  had  not  heard  distinctly. 

"No  such  man,"  echoed  the  Captain.  "You  shall  know 
what  you  should  have  known  when  we  were  married.  What  I 
told  your  father,  although  I  did  not  quite  tell  him  the  truth  —  " 

"  Scoundrel !  to  lie  to  my  unsuspicious  old  father  !  "  A  fire 
was  kindled  in  the  mild  woman  —  a  fire  doubly  dangerous  from 
the  smouldering  cinders  underneath  the  blaze. 

The  Captain,  at  all  times  a  coward,  instinctively  retreated 
toward  the  door.  He  remembered  her  a  sweet,  mild,  loving 
girl  —  he  met  a  wronged  woman. 

"  Hear  me,  Agnes,  hear  me,"  he  pleaded.  "  My  name  was 
and  is  Richard  Neal.  My  parents  died  when  I  was  young,  and 
left  me  to  the  care  of  an  uncle  who  was  cruel  and  harsh  with 
me.  My  father  had  left  me  quite  a  sum  of  money  in  a  bank, 
subject  to  my  uncle's  control  until  I  was  of  age.  He  had  a  son, 
an  only  child,  and  I  fancied  sometimes  he  would  liked  to  have 
killed  me,  to  bestow  my  wealth  upon  that  boy.  There  was 


FREE    PRISONERS. 

always  jealousy  between  us,  and  my  uncle  being  poor,  felt  bit 
terly  toward  my  father  for  not  having  left  him  anything,  except 
ing  the  sum  for  my  board,  which  was  drawn  quarterly  from  the 
bank ;  and  I  was  always  the  messenger  sent  for  it.  My  home 
was  hard  and  unpleasant.  I  was  compelled  to  work  like  a  day- 
laborer,  notwithstanding  my  expenses  were  paid.  I  could  not 
endure  such  a  life.  My  father  had  been  kind  and  gentle,  and 
left  me  a  fortune,  ample  for  my  education  and  comfort. 

"I  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  had  still  five  years  more  of 
slavery  before  I  could  control  what  was  justly  my  own.  When 
the  time  came  again  for  the  quarterly  payment,  I  wrote  a  check 
myself,  for  I  had  labored  until  I  could  imitate  my  uncle's  signa 
ture  to  perfection.  It  happened,  very  propitiously,  at  that  time 
there  was  an  estate  for  sale  that  had  a  good  rental,  and  the 
banker,  an  old  friend  of  my  father,  tried  to  induce  my  uncle  to 
buy  it  for  me,  as  it  was  the  exact  sum  of  my  bank  deposit,  and 
he  argued  it  would  double  in  value  by  the  time  I  was  of  age. 
My  uncle  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  could  not  make  me  richer 
than  his  son,  and  from  that  time  his  dislike  to  me  became  ab 
solute  hatred.  The  time  approached  for  the  sale,  and  I  signed 
a  check  for  the  full  amount,  telling  the  banker  my  uncle  had 
changed  his  mind  and  had  purchased  the  property.  I  had  always 
been  so  upright  and  reliable  in  my  transactions  for  years,  that 
I  had  the  perfect  confidence  of  the  banker,  and  he  gave  me  the 
money. 

"  I  left  that  part  of  the  world,  and  have  never  been  there  since. 
I  only  took  what  was  justly  my  own,  but  I  dreaded  the  result  of 
my  uncle's  anger,  and  fled  westward  under  the  name  of  Weth- 
erell,  and,  becoming  identified  with  that  name,  never  changed 
it.  I  told  your  father  I  had  changed  it  to  get  some  money  an 
uncle  had  left  me  on  that  condition,  for  I  loved  you,  Agnes, 
and  our  marriage,  to  be  legal,  had  to  be  solemnized  under  my 


FREE    PRISONERS.  133 

real  name.  Then  fate  threw  in  my  way  a  dashing  beauty. 
When  I  look  back,  she  seems  like  one  of  those  enchanted  devils 
one  reads  about.  I  had  always  led  a  fast  life,  had  met  and  won 
many  handsome  women,  but  this  one  was  by  far  the  most  bril 
liant  creature  I  had  ever  seen.  I  was  her  slave,  and,  but  for 
our  marriage,  would  have  married  her.  She  led  me  so  gently, 
so  surely,  that  I  made  a  vow  to  possess  her.  She  was  proud 
and  fiery,  and  as  no  one  knew  that  my  name  was  not  Wether- 
ell,  and  I  could  not  win  her  any  other  way,  I  went  through  a 
ceremony  of  marriage  that  I  soon  had  deep  cause  to  regret,  for 
she  was  a  full-fledged  devil.  She  discovered  our  marriage  — 
God  only  knows  how —  and  threatened  me  with  State's  prison  for 
bigamy,  if  I  would  not  leave  the  country.  So  I  agreed  to  go  to 
India  for  ten  years. 

"You  know  with  what  a  sad  heart  I  left  you,  Agnes,  for, 
although  I  had  been  false  to  you,  I  loved  you,  and  you  alone, 
of  all  the  women  on  earth.  I  kept  writing  to  you  continually, 
but  when  eight  years  had  passed,  and  I  had  never  heard  from 
you,  I  could  endure  my  exile  no  longer.  I  came  back,  and 
searched  for  years  in  vain  for  you.  My  life  has  been  a  pitiable 
failure  without  you.  I  have  no  home,  no  resting-place  on  earth. 
That  woman  and  I  have  never  lived  together  since  she  discov 
ered  the  fraud  practised  upon  her ;  yet  her  selfish  pride  induces 
her  to  keep  up  the  appearance  of  family  ties.  All  these  years 
I  have  wandered  over  the  earth,  peering  into  every  woman's 
face,  seeking  and  never  finding  you  till  now." 

"Sir,  I  am  nothing  to  you.  Mrs.  Wetherell  has  passed  for 
your  wife  so  many  years,  she  is  entitled  to  the  honor.  I  am 
dead  to  you." 

"  Agnes,  I  will  break  every  tie,  brave  every  danger,  if  you 
will  only  be  mine  once  again  —  my  long-lost  wife,  my  love." 

"  Captain  Wetherell,  I  disclaim  all  relationship.     Your  own 

12 


134  FREE    PRISONERS. 

conduct  broke  the  bonds  that  bound  us.  Your  cruelty  turned 
my  love  into  bitterest  hatred  and  contempt.  Nothing  can  ever 
soften  my  heart  to  you. ' ' 

"  Not  even  our  children,  Agnes?  " 

Mrs.  Neal  trembled  visibly,  but  made  no  reply.  The  Captain 
noticing  her  distress,  asked  : 

"  Our  children,  Agnes,  where  are  they  ?  " 

"Where,  indeed?"  said  the  agonized  woman,  in  tones  of 
deepest  despair. 

She  turned  suddenly  upon  the  man  who  had  been  her  hus 
band,  and,  with  a  ghostly  smile  that  seemed  only  the  action  of 
the  muscles  that  had  no  connection  with  her  innermost  self, 
hissed  from  between  her  set  teeth : 

"  They  are  dead !  And  there  is  not  a  living  creature  to 
bind  together  the  past.  I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  Captain  Weth- 
erell,  and  my  house  is  not  open  to  you  in  future.  Good-day, 
sir." 

"Good-by,  Agnes,  if  you  say  it  must  be;  but  think  it  over. 
Remember  my  years  of  penitence,  my  desolate  future,  and  ask 
me  to  come  again,  and  be  what  I  am  before  heaven,  your  hus 
band.  I  will  obey  you,  Agnes;  only  be  merciful." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  135 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

TEMPTATION   CLOTHED   IN   LOVE. 

"  Nor  should  Apollo,  with  his  silver  bow, 
Shoot  me  to  instant  death,  would  I  forbear 
To  do  a  deed  so  full  of  cause  so  dear."  —  Homer. 

r\  ^WO  months  had  passed,  with  nothing  to  disturb  the  mo 
notony  of  Linda's  life,  excepting  the  regular  visits  from 
Walter  and  Nellie,  and  her  unfailing  attendance  at  the 
prison. 

Mrs.  Neal  was  the  same  sweet,  motherly  friend ;  if  anything, 
lovelier,  and  fonder  of  Linda,  who  found  her  a  wise  counsellor, 
and  returned  her  love  with  devotion.  Their  time  was  passed 
in  sweet  communion,  never  wearying  of  each  other,  but  daily 
becoming  more  essential  to  each  other's  happiness. 

Linda  had  but  one  secret  from  her  adopted  mother,  and 
sometimes  that  weighed  heavily  upon  her  mind.  She  had  de 
termined,  if  possible,  to  liberate  Ben,  and  in  that  she  knew 
she  would  meet  with  opposition  in  the  conscientious  Mrs. 
Neal ;  so  she  resolved  to  keep  the  secret  until  she  could  tell  the 
result. 

It  was  the  day  for  her  regular  visit  to  Ben.  Mrs.  Neal  had 
gone  to  a  cabin  some  distance  off,  to  carry  some  broth  to  a 
lonely,  sick  miner,  and  Linda  knew  it  would  take  her  some 
time,  as  she  was  ministering  angel  to  all  in  need  for  miles 
around.  She  leisurely  arranged  her  toilette,  and,  smiling  to 
herself,  slipped  a  carpenter's  chisel  up  one  sleeve  and  a  file  up 
the  other. 

"This  is  desperate  business,"  thought  she,  "but  I  am  sure 


136  FREE    PRISONERS. 

the  means  will  overcome  Ben's  scruples,  and  he  will  at  least 
make  an  effort  to  escape.  I  saw  him  at  the  grating  watching 
for  me  last  week,  so  I  know  in  which  cell  he  is  confined.  If 
Jake  Sniifens  is  half  as  careless  to-day  as  he  was  last  time,  I 
will  have  no  trouble." 

She  felt  lighter-hearted  than  she  had  for  a  long  time  before, 
as  she  hurried  along  to  the  prison.  Much  to  Jake  Sniffens's 
comfort,  there  was  no  "blubbering"  on  that  occasion.  They 
sat  down  and  talked  pleasantly  together,  so  that  he  could  hear 
every  word.  He  did  not  notice  how  long  Linda  held  Ben's 
hand  in  hers ;  but  she  almost  always  held  his  hand,  so  there  was 
nothing  strange  in  that.  Jake  shortened  the  visit  by  the  an 
nouncement  that  some  one  was  knocking  and  he  must  go, 
which  meant  that  Linda  must  go  too. 

As  she  bid  Ben  good-by,  she  whispered,  pleadingly  :  "  Please 
try,  Ben,  for  my  sake." 

He  could  not  withstand  the  temptation,  clothed  in  love  as  it 
came,  and  he  answered,  softly :  "  Be  under  my  window  at  eleven 
to-night. ' ' 

That  was  all,  but  it  made  Linda's  heart  bound  with  joy.  She 
was  confident  Jake  Sniffens  had  not  noticed  anything  peculiar 
in  her  visit,  nor  heard  the  whispering ;  so  far,  all  was  well. 

Ben  was  taken  back  to  his  cell,  the  heavy  iron  door  was 
closed  and  locked,  and  Linda  went  home  anxious  but  hopeful. 

Mrs.  Neal  had  accompanied  Linda  several  times  in  her  visit 
to  Ben,  and  felt  great  interest  in  his  welfare.  She  was  at  the 
door  to  meet  her  on  her  return  to  inquire  after  him,  and 
noticing  her  flushed  cheeks,  asked  anxiously : 

"What  ails  you,  dear  child?  Is  there  anything  wrong  with 
Ben?" 

"  No,  good  mother,  Ben  is  just  as  usual,  but  I  have  a  wretched 
headache,"  which  was  really  the  case. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  137 

"  You  must  lie  down,  dear,  and  I  will  bring  you  a  nice  cup 
jof  tea,"  and  Mrs.  Neal  stroked  Linda's  aching  head. 

Linda  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  Mrs.  Neal  brought  the  tea 
with  a  steaming  piece  of  toast,  then  sat  long  by  the  bedside 
while  Linda  slept.  She  seemed  to  take  great  pleasure  in  her 
task,  for  often,  as  her  eyes  rested  fondly  on  the  sweet  face  be 
fore  her  wrapt  in  peaceful  slumber,  a  smile  of  real  contentment 
passed  over  her  usually  sad  face. 

The  striking  of  the  clock  startled  Linda,  and  she  raised  up 
hastily,  exclaiming : 

"  Nine  o'clock  !      How  long  I  have  slept !  " 

Seeing  Mrs.  Neal  still  by  her  side,  she  exclaimed  :  "  Mother 
Neal !  It  is  just  like  you,  to  have  sat  here  all  this  time.  You 
must  be  tired.  Please  go  to  bed,  now.  I  am  quite  well  again. 
The  pain  in  my  head  is  all  gone." 

"I  am  glad.  I  knew  you  were  better,  you  slept  so  quietly. 
If  you  should  feel  sick  during  the  night,  or  require  anything, 
call  me,  dear.  -  Good-night,  child,  and  pleasant  dreams." 

"Good-night,  darling  Mother  Neal,"  and  Linda  embraced 
her  fondly. 

When  the  door  was  closed,  she  exclaimed,  with  a  yearning 
appeal :  ( '  Oh,  you  darling,  good  woman  !  If  I  could  only 
tell  you  what  a  task  I  have  before  me  this  night !  May  the 
angels  of  peace,  that  have  made  you  such  a  perfect  being,  wrap 
you  in  slumber  so  profound  that  I  can  go  out  into  the  dark 
ness  to-night  as  undisturbed  as  if  I  were  spirited  away." 

She  knelt  down  and  prayed  earnestly  —  a  strange,  incon 
sistent  prayer,  like  many  offered  to  the  great  shrine  on  high  — 
a  prayer  in  which  she  pleaded  for  help  in  doing  wrong  —  a 
prayer  for  forgiveness  before  the  sin  was  committed,  with  the 
full  determination  of  committing  it.  Half  the  praying  world 
is  quite  as  inconsistent.  Few  Christians,  so  called,  seldom  return 
12* 


138  FREE    PRISONERS. 

thanks  for  past  blessings,  but  kneel  regularly  to  go  over  their 
vocabulary  of  wants.  They  pray  to  gain  something  —  what,* 
they  do  not  know  themselves  —  but  on  general  principles.  If 
there  is  a  God,  it  is  well  to  be  on  the  right  side  of  Him.  If 
there  is  a  future,  it  is  just  as  well  to  be  prepared  for  it.  Linda 
was  in  danger  and  afraid,  so  she  prayed  for  God's  blessing, 
and  expected  it  as  much  in  doing  wrong  as  in  doing  right. 
We  cannot  understand,  when  we  are  bidden  to  "  ask  and  it 
shall  be  given  unto  you,"  that  our  prayers  are  not  always  an 
swered,  because  we  are  incapable  of  judging  what  is  best,  and 
ask  for  wrong  things.  So  the  doubting  world  sneers  at  the 
efficacy  of  prayer.  If  we  have  a  delicate  child,  who  pleads 
and  entreats  for  something  we  know  would  positively  do  him 
bodily  injury,  we  refuse  the  request,  although  our  severity 
grieves  him  at  the  time.  He  does  not  know  what  is  best,  so 
we  must  exercise  our  maturer  and  better  judgment  —  not  that 
we  cannot  grant  the  request,  but  will  not,  and  in  the  far-off 
future  the  child  will  be  all  the  better  for  that  act  of  self- 
denial.  So  our  foolish,  impulsive  prayers  go  unanswered  for 
our  own  future  good.  With  all  our  conceit  and  vaunting  pride 
and  power,  we  are  only  a  family  of  children,  under  the  perfect 
control  of  a  Great  and  Wise  Power — that  the  most  learned  can 
neither  comprehend  nor  influence  one  atom.  We  are  bubbles 
on  a  mighty  ocean,  sparkling  and  dancing  in  the  sunlight,  to 
be  washed  on  the  beach  in  a  mass  of  foam  at  evening,  and 
sink  into  the  thirsty  sand. 

As  Linda  sat  waiting  for  the  ticking  clock  to  tell  the  houi, 
for  starting  on  her  dangerous  errand-,  her  thoughts  went  flying 
off  to  that  family  circle  in  Grass  Valley ;  and  most  delightful  of 
all,  she  was  soon  to  be  one  Df  them,  and  Mother  Neal  was  to 
go  with  her.  It  was  the  happiest  dream  of  her  life  to  repose 
in  the  love  and  care  of  such  a  united  home.  The  little  clock 


FREE    PRISONERS.  139 

struck  ten — she  started  nervously.  "  Only  one  hour  more,  and 
I  must  be  under  the  prison  window.  Come  out  from  your 
hiding  place,  my  only  protector/'  she  said,  taking  a  pistol 
from  a  little  casket.  "  A  blessing  on  Bob  Rivers  for  this ! 
Without  it,  how  could  I  venture  out  at  half-past  ten  o'clock 
this  dark  night  alone  ?  With  it,  I  can  dare  almost  anything. 
How  I  longed  to  tell  Walter  all  about  my  intentions  with  re 
gard  to  Ben.  How  happy  I  will  be  if  successful,  and  what 
will  I  not  suffer  if  I  fail  ?  Could  I  but  pace  up  and  down  this 
little  room,  the  time  would  not  seem  half  so  long;  but  the 
slightest  sound  might  awaken  my  anxious,  slumbering  Mother 
Neal.  So  I  must  sit  quietly,  while  my  thoughts  fly  in  quick 
succession,  like  autumn  leaves  before  a  gale.  Half-past  ten  — 
thank  God  !  I  must  be  off  to  the  prison.  Prison  !  the  very 
name  makes  me  shudder.  Ben  in  prison  ?  —  yes,  and  so  am  I. 
My  body  is  free,  but  my  soul  —  and  oh,  I  fear  my  happiness  is 
enchained  in  aliving  tomb.  How  I  tremble.  Eighteen  years 
old  to-morrow,  and  going  alone  at  midnight  to  release  my 
guilt-stained  brother  from  prison  —  to  break  the  laws  of  State. 
Oh,  Ben  !  Ben  !  if  you  knew  what  all  this  costs  me.  And 
Walter,  will  he  love  a  woman  who  dares  so  much  ?  Will  he 
not  fear  me  instead  of  loving  me,  coming,  as  I  do,  from  such 
a  strange  family?  Oh,  God,  if  there  is  any  mercy  in  heaven, 
have  mercy  on  me." 

She  went  softly  and  timidly  out  in  the  dark  night.  Veto, 
the  watch-dog,  snarled  and  growled,  but  Linda's  friendly  voice 
quieted  him  at  once.  She  tried  to  make  him  stay  at  home,  but 
he  would  not  pay  the  slightest  attention  to  her  pantomime,  and 
persistently  followed  her. 

Linda  reached  the  prison  at  the  appointed  time,  and  whis 
pered  tremulously,  "Ben,  I  am  here." 

"All  is  well,"  was  the  reply.     "We  will   be    free   by  one 


I4O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

o'clock.  You  must  not  remain  there.  Gp  down  the  Grass 
Valley  road  about  half  a  mile,  where  a  cross-road  leads  off  to 
the  left.  Wait  there ;  I  must  see  you.  Keep  in  the  bushes. 
If  you  hear  any  one  approach,  be  silent.  When  I  come  I  will 
call  your  name;  reply  to  nothing  else." 

"God  bless  you  in  your  task  to-night,  Ben,  but  my  heart  is 
faint  and  full  of  doubts." 

"Fear  not !  "  said  the  voice  from  the  dark  cell.  "I  would 
give  the  world  to  be  free,  if  I  could  only  be  your  slave." 

Linda  went  carefully  away  toward  the  road,  with  Veto  follow 
ing  closely. 

"  Thank  you,  Veto,  for  your  company,"  she  said,  patting  him 
on  the  head.  He  wagged  his  tail  and  licked  her  hand,  as  if  to 
say,  "  I  knew  you  would  want  me." 

As  her  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  she  could 
see  the  rough,  uneven  road  distinctly;  but  at  midnight,  alone 
in  the  mountains,  with  her  footsteps  resounding  like  ghostly 
pursuers,  the  half  mile  to  where  the  road  led  off  to  the  left  was 
a  long  journey.  When  they  finally  reached  the  spot,  she  sat 
down  under  a  thick  cluster  of  manzanita  bushes,  and  Veto, 
crawling  closely  to  her  side,  put  his  head  in  her  lap.  It  grew 
darker  every  moment,  and  great  rain-drops  began  to  fall.  The 
wind  rose  higher  and  higher,  until  it  whistled  and  howled  all 
around  them,  like  a  wild  beast,  in  those  lonely  mountains.  The 
tall  pines  lashed  each  other  and  moaned  pitifully.  The  rain  fell 
faster  and  faster,  until  it  seemed  to  have  spent  its  fury,  then 
gradually  subsided,  like  the  sobbing  of  a  child  after  weep 
ing. 

Under  the  shelter  of  the  thick  manzanita  bushes,  Linda  was 
quite  shielded  from  the  storm ;  but  the  moments  were  hours, 
and  the  hours  an  eternity  to  her.  After  she  had  waited  long 
and  patiently,  she  heard  the  sound  of  approaching  voices. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  141 

Veto  growled,  but  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  patted 
him.  She  whispered  something  in  his  ear ;  he  seemed  to  com 
prehend  it  all,  for  he  did  not  stir  again. 

Poor  Linda  was  almost  paralyzed  from  fear,  lest  any  instant 
Veto  would  make  their  hiding-place  known.  On  they  came, 
nearer  and  nearer,  until  she  heard  a  rough  voice  say : 

"  That  was  a  fine  piece  of  business  in  Curly." 

"Yes,  Curly  acted  the  traitor  there,  sure,"  was  the  answer. 
"What  in  thunder  had  he  against  Bob  Rivers,  anyway?  Bob 
was  the  best  fellow  that  ever  made  an  honest  living  in  these 
mountains." 

"  Honest,  be  d — d  !  "  said  the  first  speaker.  "  What 's  gettin' 
into  you,  Ned?  Who  wants  to  be  honest  when  he  's  gettin'  on 
well?" 

"  But  what  about  Bob  Rivers  and  Curly?  "  asked  the  second 
speaker  again,  paying  no  attention  to  his  friend's  taunt. 

"  I  don't  exactly  know,"  was  the  reply.  "  It  was  something 
that  happened  long  ago,  I  believe.  Bob  was  in  love  with  a 
girl,  and  they  were  going  to  be  married,  when  she  disappeared 
all  of  a  sudden,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  since.  Some  say 
Curly  took  her  off  by  force  to  one  of  his  cabins,  and  the  girl 
died  of  grief  for  Bob." 

"The  devil!" 

"Yes,"  resumed  the  narrator.  "Her  name  was  Fannie 
West,  and  a  devilish  pretty  girl,  I  've  heard." 

"If  I  'd  been  Bob,"  said  the  other,  "I'd  have  killed  that 
wretch." 

"  So  would  Bob,  I  guess,  if  he  could  prove  he  did  it. 
Thompson  told  me  he  was  down  at  Curly 's  cabin  not  long  ago, 
when  a  blamed  pretty  girl  came  along  that  way  by  some  mis 
take,  and  if  Bob  had  not  given  her  one  of  his  pistols,  and  taken 
her  part,  it  would  have  been  another  Fannie  West  case.  Who- 


142  FREE    PRISONERS. 

ever  she  was,  she  owes  a  heap  to  Bob  Rivers,  for,  after  taking 
her  part,  he  saw  her  safely  on  her  way  home.  The  boys  were 
going  down  on  a  lark  to  Grass  Valley  that  night,  and  when 
Bob  got  back,  he  found  Curly  very  much  out  of  humor. 
Thompson  said  he  tried  every  way  to  get  up  a  fight  with  Bob, 
but  Bob  was  unusually  quiet.  That  made  Curly  so  mad,  when 
they  were  near  Grass  Valley  he  deliberately  turned  and  fired  at 
Bob.  He  missed  his  aim,  but  it  brought  a  lot  of  men  out  of  a 
saloon  near  by.  Curly  walked  up  to  them,  and  said,  '  Gentle 
men,  this  is  that  other  stage  robber  that  has  been  missing  so , 
long  —  arrest  him ; '  of  course  they  nabbed  Bob.  Bill  Brown 
was  with  them,  and  he  drew  off  and  shot  Curly,  saying,  '  Take 
that  for  your  treachery.'  They  nabbed  Bill,  too,  and  sent 
him  and  Bob  up  to  jail.  Curly  is  pretty  bad,  but  the  boys 
have  changed  mightily  if  they  let  Bill  swing  for  killing —  " 

The  last  words  of  the  sentence  were  inaudible,  although 
Linda  held  her  breath  to  catch  every  sound.  She  thought  long 
over  that  strange  dialogue,  and  felt  greatly  depressed,  when  she 
fully  realized  how  much  sorrow  had  come  from  that  single  act 
of  humanity  on  the  part  of  Bob  Rivers  toward  her. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  "what  a  singular  life  I  have 
allotted  me  in  this  strange  world  !  It  must  have  been  the 
wind,  but  I  thought  I  heard  a  human  voice  —  there,  I  hear  it 
again  ;  if  it  is  only  Ben  !  " 

Veto  started  again,  and  it  required  all  her  powers  of  pur- 
suasion  to  keep  him  from  rushing  off.  Nearer  and  nearer  came 
the  voices,  and  in  great  haste  it  seemed ;  as  they  approached 
her  hiding-place,  her  name  was  called  softly,  "  Linda." 

"Here  I  am,"  she  answered  joyfully,  springing  from  her 
hiding  place ;  but,  seeing  two  men,  she  stopped  suddenly,  and 
asked:  "Which  is  Ben?" 

All  was  silent  for  an  instant.     Then  the  same  voice  that  had 


FREE    PRISONERS.  143 

answered  her  from  the  prison  window  said,  pleadingly,  "  For 
give  me  for  this  deception.  Ben  is  not  here." 

' '  Not  here  ?  ' '  gasped  Linda.     ' '  Not  free  ?  ' ' 

She  staggered  as  if  shot,  and  would  have  fallen,  but  for  the 
strong  arms  that  caught  her.  It  was  only  momentary,  and  she 
asked  pitifully  :  "  Who  are  you,  and  how  did  this  terrible  mis 
take  happen  ? ' ' 

"I  will  tell  you,"  answered  the  same  person,  kindly.  "In 
the  first  place,  that  you  may  not  fear  me,  I  am  Bob  Rivers. 
Perhaps  you  remember,  I  went  part  way  home  with  you  from 
Curly  Smith's  cabin  about  two  months  ago." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Linda.  "I  would  be  heartless, 
indeed,  if  I  could  ever  forget  your  kindness.  I  am  glad  you 
are  free,  even  though  poor  Ben  is  still  a  prisoner,  as  I  feel  sure 
he  is." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  is.  But  we  must  not  remain  here," 
said  Bob,  nervously.  "  Let  us  walk  along  this  side  road.  I 
have  considerable  to  tell  you,  and  we  are  not  safe  here." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE   FATAL   MISTAKE. 

YOUR  brother,  Bill  Brown,  this  friend  of  mine,"  said  Bob, 
pointing  to  the  man  by  his  side,  "and  I  were  all  con 
fined  in  one  large  cell,  facing  the  road,  where  you  saw 
Ben  to-day.     After  you  went  away,  your  brother  brought  in 
those  tools.     They  were  safely  secreted,  arid  all  the  arrange 
ments  made  for  to-night.     As  bad  luck  would  have  it,   the 
sheriff  visited  us  this  afternoon,  and  told  Jake  Sniifens  Ben's 


144  FREE    PRISONERS. 

trial  was  to  take  place  next  week,  and  ours  the  week  after.  He 
ordered  Ben  put  in  a  cell  by  himself,  because  he  thought  he 
would  be  more  comfortable.  The  sheriff  did  it  out  of  kind 
ness,  but  it  almost  broke  Ben's  heart  to  go.  Jake  was  going  to 
change  him  immediately,  but  some  one  called  him  away,  and 
he  did  not  come  back  for  about  an  hour.  In  the  meantime  Ben 
told  me  what  I  was  to  say  to  you.  You  see,  during  those  long 
days  in  prison,  knowing  he  was  your  brother,  I  told  him  all 
about  the  day  you  went  to  Curly  Smith's  cabin  by  mistake,  and 
how  brave  you  were,  and  afterward  about  my  going  part  way 
home  with  you — how  you  fainted  when  I  said  I  thought  he  was 
guilty,  and  how  I  could  have  cut  my  tongue  out  the  moment 
afterward,  for  I  knew  that  was  what  almost  killed  you.  The 
poor  fellow  cried  like  a  child,  and  said  : 

"  '  Poor  Linda !  What  she  has  to  suffer  through  me  !  If 
she  only  knew  how  innocent  I  am  of  this  charge,  it  would  be 
lighter  to  bear.  I  am  very  much  afraid  of  the  result  of  my 
trial,  and  then  what  will  she  not  have  to  endure  ?  Bob,  if  you 
are  freed  and  I  am  not,  if  you  have  one  spark  of  humanity  left, 
do  look  after  Linda  a  little,  for  you  don't  know  how  much  she 
needs  some  one  to  protect  her.  I  could  bear  to  be  torn  limb 
from  limb  and  piece  from  piece,  if  I  could  undo  this  wretched 
wrong,  and  lift  this  load  of  sorrow  from  her  heart. '  ' 

Linda  was  sobbing  and  crying  like  a  child,  and  Bob,  thinking 
he  had  added  another  bitter  drop  to  her  already  overflowing  cup, 
almost  wept  too.  They  had  walked  along  in  silence  some  dis 
tance  before  he  continued : 

"Ben  wanted  Bill  and  me  to  make  the  most  of  our  chance 
and  get  away.  He  thought  there  was  no  hope  of  escape  for  him, 
but  he  was  innocent,  and,  perhaps,  it  would  be  as  well  to  let 
the  law  prove  it.  He  told  me  what  to  say  at  the  prison  window, 
and  not  let  you  suspect  anything  was  wrong,  for  he  had  an  ob- 


FREE    PRISONERS.  145 

ject  in  having  you  meet  me  out  here.  He  wanted  us  to  go 
along  this  road  about  a  mile  until  we  came  to  a  cabin,  on 
the  right  hand  side,  where  the  road  seems  to  be  lost  in  the 
bushes.  He  said  we  would  know  it  by  a  light  in  the  first 
window.  He  told  me  to  take  you  there  to  see  his  wife  and 
baby." 

"  Did  you  say  Ben's  wife  and  baby?  "  asked  Linda,  as  if  she 
had  not  heard  aright. 

"Yes,  Miss,  Ben's  wife  and  baby.  He  wanted  me  to  ask 
you  to  forgive  him  for  not  telling  you.  He  was  married  a  few 
weeks  before  you  arrived  from  the  East.  His  wife's  father  and 
mother  had  been  killed  by  the  Indians  a  short  time  before,  and 
she  had  no  relations  in  this  country  —  not  even  friends.  Ben 
had  not  known  her  very  long,  but  he  loved  her,  and  she  loved 
him,  and  was  willing  to  live  with  him  in  the  humblest  manner; 
so  they  were  married.  He  said  the  reason  he  had  not  told 
you  was  because  his  family  were  all  at  war  with  one  another, 
and  such  an  announcement  would  only  have  added  fuel  to  the 
flames.  Besides,  his  father  would  not  be  likely  to  recognize 
his  wife,  as  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him,  and  she  was 
poor,  like  himself,  so  his  mother  would  not  be  pleased  with  the 
addition  to  the  family.  He  was  working  industriously,  and 
doing  well,  and  had  hoped  soon  to  have  a  pleasant  home  in 
which  to  receive  you.  His  wife  understood  the  circumstances, 
and  was  willing  to  wait  patiently.  He  has  sent  her  two  letters 
telling  her  all  about  his  troubles,  but  thinks  she  never  received 
them,  as  he  has  not  heard  from  her. ' ' 

"This  is  all  very  strange,"  said  Linda,  thoughtfully.  "  Did 
you  ever  see  his  wife  ?  ' ' 

"  No,"  answered  Bob.    "  I  never  knew  he  was' married  until 
he  told  me.    He  thinks  the  world  and  all  of  his  wife,  and  asked 
you  to  be  kind  to  her  for  his  sake. ' ' 
13  K 


146  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"How  far  do  you  think  it  is  from  here?"  inquired  Linda, 
anxiously. 

"It  cannot  be  very  far,  for  he  said  it  was  not  quite  a  mile 
from  the  main  road." 

They  were  continuing  their  walk  in  silence,  when  Bill  Brown, 
who  had  not  said  one  word  during  the  entire  conversation,  ex 
claimed,  excitedly,  "  There  is  a  light  in  a  cabin  window  !  " 

Sure  enough,  there  was  the  talisman  that  was  to  guide  them. 
As  they  approached  the  cabin  a  dog  barked  fiercely  within. 
Instantly  a  sweet  voice  asked,  "  Who  is  there?  " 

"Friends,"  said  Bob,  and  his  voice  trembled  perceptibly. 

The  cry  of  joy  that  burst  from  the  frail  creature  who  opened 
that  cabin  door  brought  tears  to  every  eye,  and  it  had  been 
long  since  Bob  Rivers  and  Bill  Brown  had  shed  tears. 

"  Oh,  Ben,  dear  Ben  !  I  thought  you  must  be  dead  !  "  cried 
the  expectant  wife.  Then,  seeing  so  many  strangers,  she  be 
came  bewildered.  No  one  could  speak  the  first  bitter  words 
of  disappointment. 

Linda  regarded  her  new  sister  an  instant,  with  her  streaming 
blonde  hair  and  soft  blue  eyes.  She  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  love  Ben's  wife  because  he  loved  her,  but  her  quick  eye  read 
that  gentle  creature,  and  like  lightning  the  thought  flashed 
through  her  brain  "I  can  love  you  for  yourself."  She  sprang 
forward,  threw  her  arms  about  her  neck,  saying : 

"I  am  Linda,  your  sister,  and  I  have  come  to  tell  you  of 
Ben." 

"Then,  he  is  —  " 

"Not  dead,"  said  Linda,  earnestly;  for  Lucy,  as  Ben  had 
sent  word  to  call  her,  seemed  unable  to  finish  the  dread  ques 
tion. 

"  Then  he  is  not  with  you?  "  asked  Lucy. 

"No,  he  could  not  come;  but  here  is  a  friend  of  his,  Mr. 
Rivers." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  147 

Lucy  bowed  coldly  to  Bob.  She  could  not  recover  her  self- 
possession  after  her  disappointment. 

"Lucy,  I  have  come,"  said  Linda,  with  a  voice  full  of  sym 
pathy  and  love,  "to  be  your  friend  until  Ben  can  come  to  you. 
He  is  in  great  trouble." 

"You  are  fortunate,  Mrs.  Wetherell.  Who  ever  can  claim 
Miss  Linda's  friendship,  has  not  only  one  of  the  most  faithful 
and  truest  friends  in  the  world,  but  a  perfect  angel  to  take  care 
of  them,"  said  Bob,  earnestly.  "  Two  hours  ago  I  was  in  jail, 
and  she  liberated  me.  My  life  is  at  her  command." 

"  Do  you  mean  that?  "  asked  Linda,  seriously. 

"I  do,"  answered  Bob,  emphatically. 

"Then  I  command  you,"  said  Linda,  earnestly,  "to  let 
the  dead  past  bury  its  dead,  and  henceforth  make  your  life  a 
noble  one." 

Bob  raised  his  hand  and  said,  solemnly,  "I  swear  to  you, 
I  will." 

They  had  quite  forgotten  Lucy,  who  stood  by  deathly  pale. 
She  turned  her  soft  eyes  to  Linda,  and  asked,  quietly,  "And 
Ben,  is  he  in  prison  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  he  is  still  there,"  answered  Linda,  with  pity  in  her 
great  brown  eyes ;  "  but  I  hope  and  pray  he  will  soon  be  free." 

As  may  be  expected,  Lucy  had  heard  nothing  from  Ben. 
His  two  partners  had  been  very  kind  and  attentive  to  her ;  but 
thinking  he  was  innocent  and  would  be  speedily  released,  they 
had  kept  her  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  real  state  of  affairs. 
They  told  her,  when  he  was  first  arrested,  that  while  visiting 
his  sister  he  had  been  subpoenaed  as  witness  in  an  important  case 
in  San  Francisco,  and  might  be  absent  some  time.  They  thought 
at  first  he  might  be  gone  two  or  three  weeks,  but  when  two 
months  went  by,  and  still  he  did  not  come,  she  became  greatly 
alarmed.  She  was  fearful  some  accident  had  happened,  or  she 


148  FREE    PRISONERS. 

would  at  least  have  heard  from  him.  But  with  all  her  conflict 
ing  thoughts,  she  had  never  once  dreamed  of  dishonor. 

Bill  Brown  would  not  enter  the  cabin ;  he  was  very  sullen  and 
morose,  considering  he  had  just  escaped  from  prison.  He  sat 
outside  in  the  rain  awhile,  then  mentioned  a  place  of  rendez 
vous  with  Bob  for  the  next  morning,  and  left.  When  he  was 
gone,  Bob  remarked,  "  That  fellow  acts  as  though  he  was  sorry 
he  had  left  jail." 

Linda  and  Bob  related  all  the  particulars  of  Ben's  imprison 
ment,  with  Linda's  efforts  to  release  him,  and  the  result.  They 
expressed  their  firm  belief  in  his  innocence,  and  positive  ex 
pectation  that  he  would  be  restored  to  his  anxious  wife  the 
following  week. 

It  was  a  long  night  of  trial  for  Lucy,  but  Linda  was  a  good 
comforter,  and  had  suffered  and  become  quite  resigned  through 
the  same  trials  that  Lucy  had  to  undergo. 

The  rayi  poured  down  in  torrents,  and  as  Bob  had  no  other 
place  to  go,  he  remained  in  the  cabin.  He  was  very  uneasy, 
for  he  wanted  to  leave  Linda  and  Lucy  alone  to  talk  over  their 
troubles  in  their  own  womanly  way.  After  he  had  thought  of 
a  great  many  plans,  it  occurred  to  him  that  Linda  must  be  faint 
and  hungry  after  her  night's  exertions,  so  he  said  in  a  very 
modest  way,  for  a  mountain  desperado,  "If  Mrs.  Wetherell 
would  let  him,  he  would  go  into  the  kitchen  and  make  a  cup 
of  coffee.  He  assured  them  Miss  Linda  needed  something 
after  her  long  walk  and  exposure  to  the  rain,  and  he  had  kept 
bachelor's  hall  so  long,  he  was  fully  competent." 

Linda  was  obliged  to  go  home  early  in  the  morning,  for  she 
knew  how  anxious  Mrs.  Neal  would  be  about  her;  but  she 
promised  to  return  the  following  day  and  remain  with  Lucy 
until  Ben  was  released.  It  was  seven  o'clock  when  she  started 
for  the  main  road,  accompanied  by  Bob  Rivers.  After  they 
had  gone  a  short  distance,  he  said :  ' 


FREE    PRISONERS.  149 

"I  have  some  business  out  here,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  road ;  that  is  why  I  remained  last  night.  I  should  have 
been  a  good  ways  off  from  here  by  this  time,  for  those  hounds 
scent  a  fellow  within  ten  miles.  My  business  is  in  an  old  tree 
not  far  from  here.  It  serves  as  my  banking-house,  and  this  is 
my  pass-key. ' '  He  drew  a  small  coil  of  rope  from  an  old  stump 
by  the  roadside.  "  I  want  you  to  remember  where  I  keep  that, 
and  also  the  tree  I  am  going  to  show  you.  It  has  two  peculiar 
chips  of  bark  cut  out  of  it,  and  the  top  was  burnt  off  some 
years  ago.  About  eight  feet  from  the  ground  a  great  arm 
branches  off,  but  the  main  trunk  is  perfectly  hollow,  and  will 
hold  a  man  very  comfortably.  I  have  some  money  deposited 
there.  The  interest  is  decidedly  small,  but  the  principal  is 
safe.  There,  that  is  the  tree." 

"  Hark  !  did  you  not  hear  voices?  "  asked  Linda,  in  alarm. 

"  Yes,  I  do.     If  I  can  only  gain  that  tree." 

"  Leave  me ;  go  quick  !  "  whispered  Linda. 

"  Have  no  fear  on  my  account ;  I  can  get  along." 

The  voices  approached  nearer  every  moment.  Linda  stood 
in  breathless  anxiety.  Bob  gained  the  tree,  threw  the  rope 
over  the  branch,  swung  up  on  it,  and  in  an  instant  was  out  of 
sight.  He  was  pulling  in  the  last  of  the  rope,  when  Veto 
barked,  and  sprang  forward  to  meet  four  men,  who  came  in  full 
view  of  Linda.  The  last  of  the  rope  disappeared,  and  Linda 
leaned  against  a  tree  for  support. 

"What  is  that  woman  doing  out  here  this  time  of  day? 
Bring  her  this  way,"  said  one,  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader. 

The  man  nearest  to  Linda  took  her  gently  by  the  arm  and 
led  her  to  the  roadside. 

"  Who  are  you,  girl  ?  "  asked  the  leader. 

Linda,  in  her  alarm  for  Bob,  could  not  answer  immediately. 
One  of  the  men,  who  had  not  appeared  to  take  much  interest  in 
13* 


I5O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

her,  came  up  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  gave  a  long 
whistle,  and  exclaimed:  "The  devil !  If  that  there  isn't  the 
soft-eyed,  tender,  blubberin'  sister  of  that  there  scapegrace  that's 
in  jail  up  there,  and  was  only  moved  out  of  that  there  cell  yester 
day  from  them  there  other  villains  that  got  out  last  night.  She 
helped  'em,  or  I  'm  a  Dutchman  !  " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  you  old  ass?  " 

"  I  mean,  sheriff,"  for  the  leader  was  the  deputy  sheriff,  "  if 
that  isn't  the  affectionate  sister  of  that  there  mighty  son  of  the 
Plutonian  regions,  then  Jake  Sniffens  is  a  Dutchman  ;  which  he 
ain't,  or  he  don't  know  himself." 

.i  "What  is  the  fellow's  name,  Jake?"  asked  the  man  who 
had  taken  care  of  Linda. 

"His  name  is  Ben  Wetherell,"  answered  Jake,  decidedly. 

The  sheriff  turned  to  Linda  and  asked:  "Are  you  Ben 
Wetherell's  sister?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am,"  was  her  firm  reply. 

"Did  you  have  anything  to  do  with  his  friends  escape  last 
night?  "  he  asked  again. 

"If  she  didn't,  then  I'm  a  sold  Dutchman,"  interrupted 
Jake. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  chattering  ape,  until  I  speak  to 
you,"  growled  the  sheriff,  fiercely. 

Turning  to  Linda,  and  apparently  having  forgotten  his  first 
question,  "  Do  you  know  where  your  brother's  friends  are,  who 
escaped  from  jail  last  night  ?  ' ' 

Linda  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered :  "  No,  sir,  I  do 
not,"  with  a  mental  reservation,  "  I  only  know  where  one  is." 

The  sheriff  noticed  her  hesitation,  and  it  exasperated  him. 
He  took  her  roughly  by  the  arm  and  drew  her  toward  him, 
saying  roughly  :  "  Perhaps  we  can  refresh  your  memory.  Jake, 
take  her  and  put  her  where  she  will  be  safe  for  the  present." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  151 

Linda's  quick  ear  detected  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  upon 
the  road.  She  screamed  loudly  fo,r  help.  In  a  few  seconds  a 
horseman  came  dashing  toward  the  group. 

"  Walter  !  "  cried  Linda,  and  he  was  by  her  side. 

"  What  does  this  mean?  "  he  asked. 

"It  means,"  said  the  sheriff,  "through  that  girl's  agency 
two  of  the  most  desperate  fellows  in  jail  escaped  last  night,  and 
she  refuses  to  tell  where  they  are." 

"  Perhaps  she  does  not  know,"  said  Walter. 

"She  says  she  don't,"  answered  the  sheriff,  maliciously; 
"but  I  know  better." 

"  What  did  you  propose  doing  with  her  because  she  refused 
to  tell  what  she  did  not  know  ?  ' '  asked  Walter. 

"  I  propose  -to  compel  her,  sir,  or  shut  her  up  in  their  place 
until  she  would  tell,"  was  the  cool  rejoinder. 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Walter,  resolutely. 
"  Go  about  your  business,  you  vulgar  fool !  When  you  do  your 
work  so  badly  as  to  be  foiled  and  fooled  by  a  girl,  you  must 
swallow  your  chagrin,  until  you  can  prove  she  was  implicated. 
This  is  Miss  Wetherell,  my  affianced  wife,  and  by  the  right  of 
my  relationship  I  command  you  to  go  about  your  business." 

The  sheriff  mounted  his  horse  sullenly,  and  with  his  men 
rode  off  toward  Nevada. 


152  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER    XXVI. 

PLIGHTED    LOVES. 

WALTER  led  Linda  to  a  fallen  tree,  and  sitting  down  by 
her  side,  put  his  arm  about  her  waist  and  drew  the  weary 
girl  to  his  breast.  Her  face  was  so  pale,  her  great  brown 
eyes  so  wild  and  anxious,  that  he  felt  greatly  alarmed  about  her. 
Not  wishing  to  tax  her  with  questions  until  she  was  rested,  he 
said,  as  cheerfully  as  possible : 

"I  come  with  good  news  this  morning  to  claim  my  wife. 
The  long  looked  for  letter  from  Belle  Burton  has  at  last  arrived. 
Here  it  is,  my  darling ;  put  it  in  your  pocket,  and  read  it  at 
your  leisure.  She  apologizes  for  her  delay,  by  saying  she  had 
been  very  muctt  occupied,  owing  to  her  approaching  marriage — 
that  her  name  will  be  Mrs.  Colonel  Wall  before  this  letter 
reaches  me.  Now,  is  my  particular,  conscientious  little  pet 
satisfied?" 

"  Walter,  how  can  you  love  such  a  pitiable  object  as  I  am?  " 
asked  Linda,  with  her  great  eyes  full  of  unshed  tears. 

"Tell  me  first  how  I  can  help  loving  you,"  said  Walter, 
tenderly,  "  then  I  will  try  to  answer  your  question.  But,  Linda, 
do  you  love  me  as  well  as  you  once  did  ? ' ' 

"  How  can  you  ask  such  a  question,  Walter?  You  surely  can 
not  doubt  it,"  and  Linda's  voice  was  choked  with  tears.  "  You 
know  there  are  two  persons  in  this  world  I  think  of  always. 
One  is  poor  Ben  ;  the  other,  and  the  chief,  your  noble  self. 
Dear  Walter,  you  are  my  idol.  When  I  give  you  the  devotion 
of  my  life,  and  all  the  love  of  my  poor,  blighted  heart,  I  am 
not  giving  you  half  enough  in  return  for  your  noble  conduct 
toward  me." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  153 

"  It  has  been  impossible  for  me  to  do  anything  for  you, 
darling,  and  I  would  feel  that  your  brave  little  self  would  more 
than  repay  me,  if  I  had  sacrificed  half  of  my  existence  for  you. 
Tell  me,  dear,  how  you  happen  to  be  out  here  so  early  in 
the  morning,  and  in  such  trouble." 

Linda  repeated  all  the  events  of  the  previous  night,  and  when 
she  mentioned  Bob  Rivers,  she  spoke  of  him  as  her  noble 
rescuer  two  months  before. 

"What  happened  to  you  two  months  ago?"  asked  Walter, 
eagerly,  for  the  memory  of  that  anonymous  note  flashed  across 
his  mind. 

Linda  related  all  the  circumstances  connected  with  her  fruit 
less  walk  to  Nevada  and  back  again  to  see  Ben  —  that  by 
taking  a  by-path  she  had  gone  .accidentally  to  Curly  Smith's 
cabin.  How  noble  and  kind  Bob  Rivers  had  been  to  her,  and 
finally  of  her  mother  and  Major  Warren  dashing  past  just  as 
she  was  bidding  him  good-by.  She  did  not  fail  to  repeat  the 
conversation  between  the  two  men  who  had  passed  her  during 
the  night,  that  he  might  understand  Bob  Rivers  had  gone  to 
prison  through  his  kind  act  toward  her. 

Walter  sat  gazing  into  her  truthful  eyes,  with  worshipful  ad 
miration,  for  one  so  young,  so  brave  and  daring,  yet  so  tender 
and  womanly  withal.  She  sat  a  few  minutes,  looking  off  into 
space,  then  said,  thoughtfully : 

"Walter,  dear,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  thankful  I  am  that  Bob 
Rivers  was  one  of  the  men  who  escaped  last  night.  I  felt  under 
such  deep  obligations  to  him,  but  now  his  kindness  to  me  is,  in 
a  measure,  returned.  I  intended  telling  you  all  about  it  some 
time,  and  thought  perhaps  you  could  do  something  for  him. ' ' 

"  It  will  afford  me  great  pleasure  to  serve  him,  for  your  sake, 
Linda ;  but  first  of  all,  from  your  desperate  doings,  my  brave 
girl,  you  need  some  one  to  take  care  of  you.  One  who  dares  so 


154  FREE    PRISONERS. 

much  for  a  wayward  brother  will  surely  prove  a  faithful  wife, 
and  I  want  to  assume  my  prerogative  at  once." 

"I  will  be  as  good  a  wife  to  you  as  I  know  how,  Walter," 
answered  Linda,  in  her  innocent,  girlish  way. 

"  Then,  dear,  I  shall  have  all  the  happiness  I  want  in  this 
world,  and  doubt  if  I  will  be  anxious  to  try  any  other." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

FOREBODINGS   OF   EVIL. 

IT  was  near  noon  when  Walter  and  Linda  arrived  at  Mrs. 
Neal's.  They  found  that  good  woman  anxiously  pacing  up 
and  down  the  little  veranda.  In  meeting  Linda  she  neither 
upbraided  nor  asked  questions,  but  simply  expressed  great  joy 
at  her  safe  return. 

Linda  was  greatly  surprised  by  her  mother's  presence  as  she 
entered  the  cottage.  She  approached  to  welcome  her,  but 
Mrs.  Wetherell  disdainfully  ignored  all  such  familiarity,  and, 
for  Mrs.  Neal's  benefit,  said  : 

"  You  are  at  your  old  tricks  again,  are  you?  Running  away 
and  staying  all  night,  no  one  knows  where,  seems  to  be  a 
favorite  amusement  of  yours."  Seeing  Walter,  she  added, 
quickly,  "  Excuse  me,  Mr.  French,  I  was  not  aware  of  your 
presence,  or  I  would  not  have  exposed  my  daughter's  want  of 
propriety." 

Linda's  cheeks  were  crimson  at  the  taunt,  and  Walter  only 
by  a  strong  effort  mastered  his  indignation. 

"  Madam,  you  misjudge  your  daughter.  Her  errands  have 
been  for  humanity's  sake." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  155 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell,  coldly;  "but  her 
humanity  is  confined  to  one  person,  if  I  am  not  mistaken." 

"Yes,  madam,"  and  Walter's  eyes  flashed.  "To  one  per 
son  —  your  ill-raised  and  abandoned  son.  If  he  had  a  mother 
equal  to  his  sister,  he  might  now  have  been  a  free  man,  instead 
of  a  prisoner." 

"  You  speak  of  my  daughter  rather  familiarly,  Mr.  French," 
said  Mrs.  Wetherell,  sarcastically,  trying  to  conceal  her  chagrin 
at  Walter's  remarks. 

"Yes,  madam,  I  claim  that  right,"  answered  Walter,  with 
dignity.  "  As  you  have  resigned  all  care  over  her,  and  denied 
her  your  protection,  I  have  not  felt  it  my  duty  to  consult  you  in 
the  matter.  I  am  your  daughter's  affianced  husband,  madam." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell,  smiling  wickedly,  "  i  wish  you 
joy  of  your  choice.  She  has  been  a  sweet  daughter,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  will  prove  as  good  a  wife. ' ' 

She  did  not  wait  for  any  reply,  but  swept  out  of  the  room. 

"Oh,  Walter,"  cried  Linda,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "why 
did  you  tell  her  that?" 

"She  cannot  interfere  with  us,  darling.  If  she  annoys  you 
in  the  least,  send  for  me. ' ' 

"Yes,  that  is  all  very  well,  Walter;  but  you  cannot  imagine 
the  depth  of  that  woman's  capacity  for  making  those  miserable 
whom  she  hates." 

"She  shall  not  have  long  to  make  you  miserable,  Linda. 
Next  week  Ben  will  be  free,  and  then,  without  any  unnecessary 
ceremony,  we  will  be  married." 

"  Next  week  is  a  long  way  off,  Walter,  and  I  shall  live  in 
dread  until  it  comes." 

"  My  little  girl  is  tired  and  half  sick,"  said  Walter,  tenderly; 
"that  is  what  makes  her  so  apprehensive.  Lie  down  and  rest 
all  day,  darling,  and  do  not  let  any  one  disturb  you.  I  must 


156  FREE    PRISONERS. 

leave  you  now,  for  I  promised  to  be  home  at  eleven,  and  it  is 
already  past  noon." 

"  Good-by,  then,  dear  Walter,"  said  Linda,  fondly. 

"  Good-by,  my  darling.  I  will  come  to  see  you  day  after 
to-morrow,  and  shall  expect  to  find  you  cheerful  and  well." 

Linda  went  to  her  room  and  threw  herself  upon  the  snowy 
little  bed.  Mrs.  Neal,  entering  soon  after,  found  her  weeping 
bitterly.  When  she  attempted  to  account  for  her  long  absence, 
the  good  Mother  Neal  stroked  her  hot  forehead,  and  said,  sooth 
ingly  : 

"  You  are  too  tired  to  talk  now,  child;  rest  first.  I  know 
you  have  been  doing  what  was  right,  and  you  shall  not  fret 
yourself  now  by  talking.  Sleep  sweetly,  dear;  you  shall  not 
be  disturbed." 

"  My  precious,  darling  Mother  Neal,"  said  Linda,  affection 
ately,  returning  her  caresses. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

THE    MARRIAGE. 

"  What  I  do  thou  knowest  not  now,  but  thou  shalt  know  hereafter." 
"  Some  bring  libations  to  mammon,  some  to  ambition,  some  to  love." 

WHILE  Mrs.  Neal  was  with  Linda,  a  messenger  came  with 
a  note  addressed  to  Miss  Wetherell.     Mrs.  Wetherell  re 
ceived  it  at  the  door.     After  reading  the  superscription, 
she  tore  it  open,  and,  to  her  amazement,  read  : 

Come  immediately.     We  fear  your  father  has  been  fatally 
injured  in  the  mine  this  afternoon. 

Your  obedient  servant, 

JOHN  MURPHY, 

Boss  workman. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  157 

"  I  will  go  with  you  at  once  instead  of  my  daughter,  who  is 
ill,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell  to  the  messenger.  She  threw  on  her 
shawl  and  bonnet,  telling  Mrs.  Neal  she  was  called  away  on  im 
portant  business,  and  might  possibly  not  return  that  night. 

Linda  saw  her  mother  go  away  in  the  dilapidated  old  wagon 
that  had  driven  up  a  few  moments  before,  with  a  sense  of  relief 
at  her  departure.  The  note  went  with  her,  so  Linda  was  left 
wholly  ignorant  of  what  was  transpiring. 

The  mill  was  three  miles  from  Nevada,  the  road  very  un 
even  and  rough,  and  the  ride  slow  and  tiresome;  still,  Mrs. 
Wetherell  did  not  deign  to  ask  any  questions  of  the  stupid  little 
driver  by  her  side.  She  seemed  lost  in  deep  meditation.  When 
the  wagon  stopped,  she  sprang  out  without  assistance,  and 
stepped  quickly  into  the  house. 

"  It 's  all  over  wid  'im,  ma'am,"  said  the  faithful  John  Mur 
phy,  sadly. 

An  expression  of  satisfaction  passed  over  Mrs.  Wetherell's 
face,  and  her  eyes  were  blacker  and  burned  more  fiercely  than 
usual.  She  made  no  pretence  at  sorrow,  but  gazed  upon  the 
lifeless  form  of  the  man  who  had  been  her  husband  so  many 
years  as  one  would  look  at  a  dead  dog. 

"How long  since  he  died?"  she  asked. 

"It's  about  ten  minutes  agone  since  he  brathed  his  last, 
ma'am,"  answered  John. 

"  Did  he  leave  any  papers?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wetherell,  looking 
searchingly  into  John's  face. 

"  None,  I  think,  ma'am;  leastways,  I  hain't  got  none." 

John  gave  a  side  glance  at  the  old  man  to  see  if  he  really 
was  dead,  and  if  he  approved  of  that  sort  of  gabble. 

Mrs.  Wetherell  gave  a  significant  smile  and  walked  to  the 
door. 

John  remarKed  aside  to  the  old  man:  "Begorra,  I  did  that 
14 


158  FREE    PRISONERS. 

foine.  If  that  she-divil  thinks  she  can  pull  the  wool  o'er  John 
Murphy's  eyes,  sure  she's  wilcome.  Bedad,  I'll  do  as  yez 
tould  me,  ould  gintleman,  for  I  'm  not  afther  wantin'  yer  un- 
aisy  spirit  to  be  hobgoblin  afther  me.  Yez  fixed  it  foine  wid 
'er,  but  I  'm  afther  thinkin'  the  divil  fixed  'er  afore  yez,  and 
gave  her  a  gizzard  instead  of  a  heart." 

"John,"  called  Mrs.  Wetherell. 

"  Yis,  ma'am,"  and  John  was  by  her  side. 

"Dig  a  grave  under  that  pine-tree  to  night,  and  make  a  rough 
coffin.  I  want  you  to  bury  the  Captain  before  daylight  to-mor 
row  morning." 

"  Begorra,  and  would  ye  no  let  a  man  get  cowld  afore  yez  put 
him  under?"  asked  John,  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell,  more  mildly.  "It  is 
unnecessary  to  explain  my  undue  haste.  I  am  obliged  to  go 
away  suddenly,  and  cannot  delay  for  funeral  services." 

"  Be  the  stick,  that  bates  the  divil !  for  I  do  na  think  he  's 
got  to  the  ould  un  yet,"  said  John,  meditatively. 

"  Will  you  obey  my  orders,  John?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wetherell. 

"Ye,  ye-ez,  ma'am,"  said  John,  doubtfully. 

"Then  take  this  for  your  pains  —  get  a  keg  of  whiskey  and 
have  a  wake  over  the  Captain,  if  you  like,  to-night,"  and  Mrs. 
Wetherell  handed  him  some  money. 

"Thank  yez,  ma'am,"  said  John,  taking  the  gold. 

Turning  to  the  boy  who  had  brought  her  there,  she  said : 
"  Drive  me  back  to  Nevada  as  fast  as  possible." 

"Begorra,  if  she  ain't  a  tough  'un !  "  exclaimed  John 
Murphy,  as  they  drove  off. 

When  they  reached  Nevada,  she  asked  the  boy  to  stop  at  the 
telegraph  office,  and  leave  his  horse  there  until  he  was  ready 
to  return  home.  Going  inside  she  asked  the  operator  if  there 
was  any  dispatch  for  Mrs.  Wetherell,  and  appeared  very  much 


FREE    PRISONERS.  159 

disappointed  when  she  was  told  there  was  none.  She  picked 
up  a  blank  lying  on  the  desk,  and  asked  for  pen  and  ink,  re 
marking  that  she  wished  to  make  a  memorandum.  When  she 
had  finished,  she  asked,  pleasantly : 

"  Will  you  please  give  me  an  envelope?  " 

"  Certainly,  madam,"  said  the  operator,  who  was  busy  writ 
ing,  and  had  paid  little  attention  to  her. 

She  addressed  the  envelope,  and  saying,  sweetly,  "Good- 
evening,  sir;  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  went  outside  where  the 
boy  was  waiting. 

"  I  want  you  to  remain  here  about  half  an  hour,  then  bring 
this  note  up  to  the  same  house  where  you  came  after  me,  and 
take  this  for  your  pains,"  handing  him  some  money. 

The  boy  nodded  stupidly,  and  she  walked  hurriedly  away, 
with  her  imperious  air. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  the  boy  arrived  with  the  note. 
Mrs.  Neal  took  it  hastily  to  Linda's  room. 

" A  telegraphic  despatch  for  me?"  asked  Linda,  alarmed. 
"What  can  it  mean ?  ' '  She  read,  hurriedly : 

ORLEANS  HOTEL,  SACRAMENTO. 

Come  to  me,  daughter.  I  am  very  ill,  I  fear  dying.  Bring 
your  mother,  that  we  may  part  friends. 

RICHARD  WETHERELL. 

Linda  read  the  despatch  aloud,  and  turned  to  Mrs.  Neal  for 
advice : 

"Tell  me,  dear  friend,  what  shall  I  do?  " 

"You  must  go,  of  course,"  said  honest  Mrs.  Neal;  "and, 
by  all  means,  take  your  mother  with  you.  It  may  result  in  once 
more  uniting  your  whole  family." 

"You  are  always  right,  Mother  Neal,"  said  Linda,  perfectly 
convinced.  "  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  ask  my  mother  to  come 
to  me?" 


l6o  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"Yes;  but  she  is  all  ready  to  go  home." 

"  How  fortunate  I  received  this  despatch  before  she  left," 
said  Linda,  rising  and  beginning  to  dress. 

In  a  few  minutes,  Mrs.  Wetherell  entered  Linda's  room  as 
cold  and  stately  as  ever.  Linda  handed  her  the  despatch. 
She  glanced  over  it  hastily,  threw  it  aside,  and  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands,  exclaimed  : 

"Great  Heaven  !  What  other  calamity  can  befall  me?  At 
war  with  every  one  and  myself,  goaded  by  remorse,  and  now, 
at  my  time  of  life,  left  penniless  !  " 

Linda's  sympathies  were  deeply  touched,  and  she  used  every 
possible  means  to  comfort  and  console  her. 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  to  see  him,  mother? "  she  asked. 

' '  Yes,  Linda, ' '  answered  Mrs.  Wetherell,  more  calmly.  ' '  Per 
haps  I  have  not  been  quite  as  good  a  wife  to  him  as  I  should 
have  been,  and  I  will  comply  with  his  last  request." 

She  kindly  offered  to  assist  Linda  in  preparing  for  her  jour 
ney.  The  carriage  was  waiting  to  take  her  back  to  Grass  Valley, 
and  she  thought  Linda  had  better  hasten  to  accompany  her, 
that  she  might  also  have  time  to  make  some  preparations  for 
their  departure  in  the  morning.  Her  manner  was  so  kind  and 
affable,  that  Linda  thought  in  her  heart  Mrs.  Neal  was  surely 
right,  and  this  misfortune  would  entirely  change  her  mother. 

They  had  a  lonely  ride  in  the  dark,  although  the  distance 
was  only  four  miles.  Linda's  heart  was  full  of  conflicting 
thoughts  and  emotions  over  the  events  of  the  day.  Her  mother 
requested  her  not  to  mention  the  cause  of  their  sudden  departure 
to  any  one,  to  which  she  assented.  There  was  no  other  con 
versation  between  them. 

To  Linda's  great  astonishment,  on  their  arrival  home,  they 
were  warmly  welcomed,  and  assisted  from  the  carriage,  by 
Major  Warren.  She  was  unusually  polite  to  him,  but  so  soon 


FREE    PRISONERS.  l6l 

as  possible  passed  on  to  her  own  room,  leaving  her  mother  to 
Entertain  him. 

"  Have  you  forgotten,  dear  madam,  this  was  to  be  my  wed 
ding  day?  "  he  asked,  with  an  aggrieved  air. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell,  earnestly.  "But  we 
met  with  a  misfortune,  which  delayed  us  so  long.  It  must  be 
nine  o'clock.  I  fear  you  will  have  to  postpone  it  until  to-mor 
row,  dear  Major,  owing  to  our  delay  in  getting  here." 

-'•Nine  o'clock  is  only  late  in  the  country,"  pleaded  the 
Major.  "I  spoke  to  the  magistrate,  and  he  is  in  his  office 
every  evening  until  ten.  Besides  —  forgive  the  weakness,  dear 
madam  —  but  I  have  a  terrible  feeling  of  superstition  about 
postponing  marriages." 

"  Excuse  me,  then,  a  little  while ;  perhaps  I  can  still  arrange 
matters  -to  suit  you. ' ' 

Mrs.  Wetherell  left  the  Major  with  a  bewitching  smile.  In 
a  few  moments  she  returned.  The  Major,  all  excitement, 
sprang  to  meet  her. 

"  Well,  my  dear  madam,  am  I  to  be  so  happy  as  to  claim  my 
bride?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "My  daughter  says  on  two 
conditions,  owing  to  her  brother's  trouble.  First,  that  you 
permit  her  to  go  veiled  during  the  ceremony;  second,  that  you 
will  not  claim  her  for  one  month." 

"  To  obtain  my  long-sought  prize  I  will  agree  to  anything," 
warmly  kissing  Mrs.  Wetherell's  hand.  "And  you,  dear 
madam,  I  shall  always  bless  you  for  your  perseverance  and  great 
kindness  to  me." 

A  few  minutes  later  Major  Warren  left  the  house  with  a 
closely  veiled    lady.     The  marriage  ceremony  was  performed 
by  the  justice  of  the  peace,  and  two  strangers  were  witnesses. 
14*  L 


l62  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE    BRIDAL   TRIP. 

npHE  next  morning,  at  daybreak,  a  carriage  left  Grass  Val 
ley  containing  Major  Warren,  Mrs.  Wetherell,  and  Linda. 
After  travelling  all  day,  they  arrived  at  Sacramento  as  the 
street  lamps  were  being  lighted.  The  carriage  passed  leisurely 
up  J  Street,  and,  turning  to  the  left,  stopped  before  a  genteel 
residence.  It  was  a  two-story  brick,  covered  with  running 
roses  and  honeysuckles,  and  so  completely  surrounded  by 
fruit  and  fancy  trees,  it  seemed  to  have  dropped  in  the  midst 
of  a  miniature  forest.  The  bright  lights  streaming  from  every 
window,  as  tokens  of  welcome,  gave  it  a  cheerful,  inviting 
appearance.  As  the  carriage  stopped,  a  middle-aged  servant 
received  them,  and  assisted  with  the  many  necessary  travelling 
packages. 

Linda  had  caught  a  severe  cold  the  night  she  spent  in  the 
storm  by  the  roadside  awaiting  Ben,  from  which  she  had  been 
suffering  severely.  During  their  long  ride  she  had  acted  in  a 
strange  manner,  dozing  almost  constantly.  When  she  did 
wake  up,  it  was  with  a  frightened  look,  only  to  fall  asleep  again. 

Mrs.  Wetherell  told  the  Major  her  daughter  had  not  been  well 
for  several  days,  owing,  she  thought,  to  the  excitement  attend 
ing  her  brother's  misfortunes  and  her  approaching  marriage. 
With  the  additional  cold  she  had  caught,  she  feared  she  might 
be  seriously  ill. 

The  servant  who  received  them  led  the  way  to  a  nicely  fur 
nished  room  up  stairs,  while  the  driver  carried  Linda  in  his 
arms  and  laid  her  upon  the  bed.  She  was  perfectly  helpless 
and  passive  to  all  that  took  place. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  163 

The  Major  said  quietly  to  the  servant:  "Ann,  Mrs.  Warren 
is  quite  ill.  I  want  you  to  sleep  on  the  sofa  here  to-night  and 
take  care  of  her.  The  madam,"  pointing  to  Mrs.  Wetherell, 
"can  take  the  next  room.  In  case  of  any  alarming  symptoms, 
call  her.  Give  us  our  supper  now,  and  serve  Mrs.. Warren 
something  delicate." 

Mrs.  Wetherell  began  taking  off  Linda's  wrappings,  when  the 
Major,  who  was  standing  by  her  side,  said,  "  Mother." 

Mrs.  Wetherell  turned  suddenly  and  looked  severely  at  him, 
then,  as  if  suddenly  comprehending  his  meaning,  smiled  sar 
castically. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  said  the  Major,  somewhat 
confused,  "but  am  I  not  your  son  now,  and  your  daughter, 
my  wife,  is  seriously  ill  ?  It  befits  us  to  take  care  of  her  ten 
derly  and  well,  as  mother  and  son  should  do.  Shall  I  not  send 
for  the  doctor  ?  ' ' 

"  I  think  it  is  unnecessary,  dear  Major,"  said  Mrs.  Wether 
ell,  without  the  least  concern.  "  Linda  is  quite  ill,  I  admit, 
but  I  think,  as  she  appears  so  drowsy,  she  may  sleep  off  her 
sickness,  and  be  quite  herself  again  by  morning." 

"  But  she  has  a  high  fever,"  persisted  the  Major. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell,  feeling  the  burning  brow. 
"  Still,  I  think  that  is  caused  by  the  severe  cold  she  has  had 
for  several  days." 

Mrs.  Wetherell  gained  her  point  —  the  doctor  was  not  sent  for. 
They  ate  their  supper  agreeably  and  socially,  and  afterward 
sent  Ann  to  wait  upon  Linda. 

The  next  morning  she  was  quite  delirious  from  fever.  The 
Major,  greatly  alarmed,  went  himself  for  the  doctor,  who  pro 
nounced  the  patient  dangerously  ill  from  pneumonia. 


164  FREE    PRISONERS. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 


A  WEEK  had  passed  since  Linda  bade  Mrs.  Neal  good-by, 
J-\  promising  to  write  her  at  once  in  regard  to  her  father's 
condition,  and,  under  all  circumstances,  to  return  to  Ne 
vada  before  Ben's  trial.  Yet  not  one  line  had  been  received 
from  her,  and  the  time  of  Ben's  trial  was  at  hand.  Walter 
had  been  twice  to  inquire  after  her,  but  was  not  alarmed 
at  her  silence,  thinking  the  extreme  illness  of  her  father,  un 
doubtedly,  occupied  all  her  attention.  Mrs.  Neal  also  thought 
that  was  the  case  until  Ben's  trial  took  place,  and  still  no 
word  came;  then  she  became  greatly  alarmed,  and  expressed 
her  anxiety  freely  to  Walter,  who  remained  in  Nevada  during 
the  entire  trial,  doing  all  in  his  power  to  save  Ben,  but  to 
no  purpose. 

It  was  a  simple  case.  The  teamster  had  been  robbed,  and 
he  swore  Ben  was  the  man  who  robbed  him.  Although  Ben's 
friends  were  confident  of  his  innocence,  they  could  do  nothing 
for  him.  The.  simple  truth  condemned  him.  He  had  been 
out  hunting  that  afternoon,  and,  although  it  was  his  custom,  he 
had  remained  out  later  than  usual  on  that  particular  day,  and 
was  still  away  at  the  time  the  robbery  had  been  committed. 

He  was  found  guilty  of  grand  larceny,  and  sentenced  to  seven 
years  in  State's  prison.  Although  he  had  expected  that  result, 
the  sentence  came  like  a  death-blow.  Seven  years  !  He  sat 
motionless,  looking  vacantly  over  the  curious  throng,  not  see 
ing  any  one,  nor  anything,  but  a  confused,  misty  expanse  of 
seven  bleak,  weary  years.  His  suffering  was  so  intense,  so 


FREE    PRISONERS.  l6$ 

deep,  the  crowd  was  awed  and  every  heart  was  touched  with 
pity. 

In  the  farthest  corner  of  the  court-room  sat  a  crouching 
figure  that  might  be  sixty  years  old.  His  hat  was  drawn  closely 
over  his  forehead  and  eyes,  and  most  of  his  face  was  concealed 
by  a  heavy  moustache  and  full  beard.  What  little  could  be 
seen  was  strangely  at  variance  with  the  rest  of  the  man,  for  the 
fresh,  soft  cheeks  belonged  only  to  youth.  His  eyes,  like  all 
the  others,  were  riveted  upon  the  doomed  man.  When  the 
sentence  was  read,  and  the  noble,  manly  prisoner,  without  a 
shudder  or  external  sign  of  grief,  sat  looking  blankly  into 
space,  the  crouching  figure  shuddered  —  his  hands  grasped 
the  seat  convulsively,  as  from  a  sudden  spasm  of  pain.  Once 
he  made  a  motion  as  if  to  rise,  but  dropped  heavily  back  into 
his  seat,  and  his  black  eyes  darted  quick,  nervous  glances  from 
face  to  face.  It  was  not  an  expression  of  fear,  for  he  knew  no 
one  would  ever  recognize  in  that  heavily-bearded,  stooping, 
sluggish  man,  the  smooth-faced,  youthful,  graceful  figure  of 
Bill  Brown.  But  why  should  Bill  Brown  manifest  such  interest 
in  Ben  Wetherell's  fate,  and  run  the  risk  of  detection  and 
arrest  in  coming  publicly  to  the  very  place  where  he  was  to  have 
been  arraigned  for  trial  the  following  week"? 

Walter  would  not  permit  the  sheriff  to  return  Ben  alone  from 
the  court-room.  He  put  his  arm  within  his,  led  him  with 
brotherly  affection  back  to  his  gloomy  cell,  and  there  talked 
hopefully,  when  he  knew  there  was  no  hope,  trying  to  cheer 
him,  but  it  was  useless.  The  broken  pride  and  crushed  feel 
ings  refused  to  rally.  His  bright,  young  life  seemed  shattered 
forever.  He  sat  listening  without  hearing  a  word,  and  it  was 
with  great  apprehensions  for  his  mental  faculties  that  Walter 
reluctantly  left  him,  and  returned  to  Mrs.  Neal's,  where  Nellie 
was  anxiously  waiting  to  hear  the  result  of  the  trial.  It  was 


l66  FREE    PRISONERS. 

a  solemn  announcement,  and  sadly  accepted.  They  could  not 
think  it  possible  there  had  been  any  mistake,  yet  they  had 
hoped  for  something  better  for  Linda's  sake. 

Walter  sat  down  wearily,  and,  taking  up  the  day's  paper, 
glanced  carelessly  over  its  columns.  Suddenly  he  threw  it 
from  him,  and  went  hurriedly  out  of  the  room. 

"What  can  be  the  matter?"  said  Nellie,  anxiously,  starting 
to  follow  him.  "  Is  Walter  sick  ?  " 

"I  would  not  follow  him,"  said  Mrs.  Neal,  quietly,  taking 
up  the  discarded  paper.  "  He/ead  something  here  that  shocked 
him.  I  was  looking  at  him  when  he  first  saw  it.  Whatever 
it  was,  it  gave  him  great  pain." 

"What  can  it  be?  "  and  Nellie  glanced  over  the  paper  with 
Mrs.  Neal. 

"It  is  that!"  said  the  widow,  grasping  the  paper  firmly 
with  one  hand,  and  pointing  with  the  other  to  a  paragraph  that 
read : 

"Married.  On  the  twentieth  instant,  in  Grass  Valley,  Ma 
jor  WTilliam  Warren  to  Linda,  only  daughter  of  Captain  and 
Mrs.  Wetherell." 

The  two  friends  stood  looking  with  astonishment  at  each 
other.  Mrs.  Neal  t^as  the  first  to  recover  herself,  and  said, 
with  a  strangely  fierce  tone  for  her : 

"Mrs.  Gray,  there  has  been  foul  play  with  the  child." 

"I  did  not  think  that  of  Linda,"  answered  Nellie,  with  bit 
ter  disappointment  in  her  voice. 

"Linda  is  not  to  blame,"  insisted  Mrs.  Neal. 

"I  am  not  so  sure,"  said  Nellie,  her  confidence  in  Linda 
evidently  shaken.  "No  matter  how  great  the  pressure  brought 
to  bear  by  her  mother,  Linda  could  not  have  been  forced  into 
marrying  the  Major,  if  she  had  had  proper  affection  for  Wal 
ter." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  l6/ 

"  You  forget  her  father  was  dying  when  she  left  here,  and 
this  might  have  been  his  last  request ;  and  dying  requests  are 
hard  to  refuse." 

"But  why  has  she  not  written  to  you  and  explained  her 
troubles?" 

"That  I  cannot  answer,  Mrs.  Gray;  but  my  confidence  in 
Linda  is  so  implicit,  I  am  positive  only  extreme  necessity 
would  compel  her  to  do  what  she  so  strongly  opposed,  and  then 
there  would  have  to  be  a  perfect  conviction  that  in  sacrificing 
her  own  feelings  she  was  doing  her  duty. ' ' 

"  But  Walter  !  has  she  no  pity  for  him?  " 

Nellie's  voice  trembled,  and  tears  of  sympathy  for  her  idol 
ized  brother  streamed  down  her  cheeks.  She  went  quietly  into 
the  adjoining  room,  and  going  up  to  him,  put  her  arms  around 
his  neck  and  caressed  him  fondly.  He  grasped  her  hand 
spasmodically,  and  his  features  worked  convulsively  as  he  hissed 
out: 

"  False  !  false  !  Never  let  her  name  be  spoken  in  my  pres 
ence."  Then,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  weakness,  he  rose  hurriedly, 
saying,  quite  like  himself,  "  Nellie,  it  is  time  we  were  going 
home. ' ' 

Mrs.  Neal's  heart  ached  for  him,  but  she  only  pressed  his 
hand  warmly  at  parting,  and  whispered,  "  Never  doubt  her. 
She  has  been  wronged." 

Walter  glanced  quickly  at  the  sweet,  motherly  face  at  his 
side.  She  had  poured  oil  upon  his  burning  wounds ;  they 
burned  less  fiercely ;  but  they  were  still  there,  deep  and  bleed 
ing.  Then  he  thought,  "  Only  one  more  dupe.  She  has  de 
ceived  us  all.  It  is  better  so  than  to  discover  it  later." 

On  their  arriving  home,  as  George  was  assisting  Nellie  from 
the  carriage,  Walter  joined  them  and  said,  abruptly : 

"  George,  come  down  to  my  office  right  away.  I  want  to 
see  you  on  business." 


l68  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"All  right,  I  will  come,"  said  George,  wondering  what  the 
sudden  haste  could  mean. 

Nellie  put  her  arm  in  George's,  and  like  a  cooing  dove  re 
lated  all  the  sad  events  of  the  day.  She  could  not  think  Linda 
deliberately  false,  but,  in  her  sympathy  for  Walter,  felt  she 
might  have  done  otherwise. 

When  George  arrived  at  the  office,  he  found  Walter  restlessly 
pacing  the  floor.  He  turned  suddenly  at  George's  entrance, 
saying  : 

"  George,  Wheeler  has  offered  me  eighty  thousand  dollars 
for  the  mill,  and  I  want  to  sell." 

George  was  greatly  surprised  at  the  announcement,  but  after 
what  Nellie  had  told  him,  he  comprehended  the  cause  perfectly. 
As  Walter  seemed  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  said  : 

"Well  ?  "  apparently  waiting  for  further  particulars. 

"  I  am  sick  of  this  country,"  burst  out  Walter.  "  I  will  sell 
my  interest.  You  can  do  as  you  like.  I  shall  go  East  at  once, 
and  settle  down  South. ' ' 

"If  you  sell,"  said  George,  in  his  characteristic,  earnest  way, 
"I  will  too,  and  go  with  you." 

"Agreed!"  said  Walter,  grasping  his  hand  warmly.  "It 
is  a  bargain,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"Will  you  never  regret  it?"  asked  Walter,  eagerly. 

"  No.  I  want  to  go  East  anyway.  You  know  mother  is 
failing  fast,  and  wants  to  see  us  all  once  more." 

"Yes,"  added  Walter,  thoughtfully,  "and  you  are  the  only 
heir  to  all  that  estate. ' ' 

"The  only  one."  George  put  his  arm  through  Walter's, 
and  they  walked  in  silence  up  to  the  cottage. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  169 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

CONVALESCING. 

npHREE  weeks  had  elapsed,  and  Linda  was  still  confined  to  her 
bed.  The  disease  was  conquered,  but  the  great  prostration 
following  such  a  severe  attack  required  time  and  patience 
to  recuperate.  Convalescence,  under  pleasant  circumstances,  is 
tedious ;  but  to  one  in  Linda's  situation  it  was  doubly  weari 
some.  She  was  continually  harassed  by  anxiety  for  Ben,  and 
her  peculiar,  incomprehensible  situation  in  Major  Warren's 
house,  added  to  her  separation  from  Mrs.  Neal  and  Walter, 
weighed  heavily  upon  her  mind.  They  were  all  kind  to  her, 
but  she  did  not  dare  ask  questions.  Once  she  ventured  to  in 
quire  of  her  mother  where  her  father  was.  She  answered : 
"  He  recovered,  and  went  home  long  ago." 

Encouraged  by  that  reply,  she  asked  why  the  servants  called 
her  Mrs.  Warren. 

"Because  you  are  Mrs.  Warren,  I  suppose,"  answered  Mrs. 
Wetherell,  shortly,  and  withdrew  apparently  to  avoid  further 
questions. 

Still  another  week  had  gone  by,  during  which  Linda  had 
been  sitting  up  part  of  each  day,  and  was  rapidly  regaining 
her  strength. 

The  Doctor  came  to  pay  one  of  his  regular  visits,  and  fearing 
they  might  cease  altogether,  without  an  opportunity  of  advising 
with  him,  she  took  advantage  of  the  first  occasion  of  their 
being  alone. 

"Doctor,  you  have  been  very  kind,  and  I  am  so  much 
in  need  of  a  friend.  I  feel  I  can  take  the  liberty  of  saying  to 
you  what  I  cannot  to  any  one  else.  You  call  me  Mrs.  Warren  ; 
15 


I/O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

so  do  the  servants ;  but  by  what  right,  I  assure  you  I  do  not 
know. ' ' 

"  By  the  common  right  a  wife  has  to  her  husband's  name,  no 
doubt,"  said  the  Doctor,  eyeing  her  strangely. 

"But  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  a  husband,"  said  Linda, 
earnestly.  "  If  I  have  been  married,  I  assure  you  I  was  not  in 
my  right  senses  at  the  time." 

"You  astonish  me!"  said  the  Doctor,  still  regarding  her 
intently.  "You  must  be  laboring  under  some  mental  excite 
ment,  my  child,  and  need  rest." 

"No,  Doctor,"  said  Linda,  firmly.  "I  am  perfectly  calm 
and  collected,  when  I  tell  you  I  have  no  knowledge  of  my 
marriage,  neither  have  I  the  slightest  idea  how  I  came  here. ' ' 

"  Perhaps  your  illness  has  impaired  your  memory.  When  you 
regain  your  strength  entirely,  all  will  return  fresh  to  your  mind 
again,"  and  the  Doctor  withdrew  his  searching  gaze,  apparently 
satisfied. 

"No,  Doctor.  I  think  I  will  be  firmer  in  my  belief  that  I 
have  been  wronged  in  some  way.  My  mother  was  so  deter 
mined  I  should  marry  Major  Warren,  and  I  so  positively  opposed 
it,  I  assure  you  there  has  been  foul  play.  I  know  her  well,  and 
no  obstacle  would  prevent  her  gaining  her  object.  That  I  was 
wholly  unconscious  the  day  I  came  here  is  certain.  Sometimes 
I  have  thought  I  must  have  been  drugged." 

It  was  Linda's  turn  to  look  searchingly  at  the  Doctor,  and  her 
quick  eye  detected  the  contraction  of  his  firm  mouth,  and  the 
lines  on  his  brow  grow  deeper.  When  she  had  finished  speak 
ing,  he  sat  thoughtfully  a  few  seconds,  then  taking  her  hand  in 
his,  the  good  old  man  said,  with  much  earnestness  : 

"  My  child,  I  am  of  the  same  opinion  as  yourself  in  regard  to 
the  drugging.  The  first  morning  I  came  to  see  you  I  imme 
diately  said  you  had  pneumonia,  but  were  also  suffering  from 


FREE    PRISONERS.  \Jl 

some  narcotic  poison.  I  asked  your  mother  and  the  Major,  but 
they  both  positively  denied  the  use  of  any  drugs.  Still,  they 
admitted  you  had  been  very  stupid,  and  slept  most  of  the  pre 
vious  day  on  your  way  from  Grass  Valley.  They  had  been  with 
you  all  the  time,  they  said,  and  were  sure  you  had  not  taken 
any  medicine  whatever.  I  still  persisted  firmly  in  my  decision, 
although  I  said  nothing  more  to  them,  excepting  to  ask  the  Ma 
jor's  permission  to  bring  Dr.  Moore,  an  old  friend  of  mine,  with 
me  to  see  you,  as  I  thought  you  were  alarmingly  ill.  As  he  not 
only  gave  his  consent,  but  asked  me  to  spare  no  pains  in  having 
everything  done  for  you  at  once  that  I  possibly  could,  I  im 
mediately  found  my  friend,  and  brought  him  around,  my  mo 
tive  being  entirely  to  have  his  opinion  in  regard  to  the  narcotics 
you  had  taken.  His  decision  coincided  exactly  with  mine,  that 
you  had  taken  powerful  narcotics,  and  he  expressed  great  aston 
ishment  that  you  were  alive,  considering  the  inflamed  condition 
of  your  lungs.  If  I  had  not  given  you  antidotes  at  once,  not 
withstanding  the  assertions  of  your  mother  and  the  Major,  in  all 
probability  you  would  not  have  been  alive  now.  I  tell  you  this 
in  confidence,  and  hope  you  will  not  repeat  it.  However,  if 
there  is  anything  wrong  in  this  matter,  come  to  me  and  I  will 
befriend  you.  You  are  getting  along  so  nicely,  I  had  intended 
to  dispense  with  my  daily  visits,  but  now  I  will  continue  to 
come  as  your  friend." 

"  Thank  you,  Doctor.  You  do  not  know  how  grateful  I  am 
for  all  you  have  told  me.  It  will  put  me  now  on  my  guard.  I 
am  in  constant  fear  of  something,  I  scarcely  know  what.  My 
mother  is  hard'  and  ambitious,  and  I  have  opposed  her  wishes, 
which  gives  me  cause  to  fear  her.  The  Major  I  despise.  I  am 
greatly  in  need  of  friendly  advice ;  although  I  am  still  so  weak, 
I  suppose  I  must  sit  here  and  wait  until  my  strength  returns 
before  undertaking  anything." 


\J2  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  Yes,  you  must  keep  moderately  quiet.  Be  guarded  in  your 
conversations,  and  advise  with  me  before  taking  any  decided 
measures. ' ' 

"As  you  are  to  be  my  friend,  will  you  begin  by  doing  me  a 
favor?" 

"With  pleasure,  my  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  kindly. 

"Thank  you.  Will  you  please  mail  these  letters?  One  is 
for  my  sister-in-law,  as  you  will  see  by  the  superscription.  I 
am  anxious  she  should  get  it,  for  she  must  be  very  lonely.  My 
brother,  I  expect,  is  away  from  home.  His  marriage  is  a  secret 
from  my  mother,  that  is  the  reason  I  could  not  mail  the  letter 
through  any  one  in  the  house.  The  other  is  for  the  dearest, 
best  woman  on  earth,  Mrs.  Neal." 

The  Doctor  put  trie  letters  carefully  in  his  pocket,  and  rose 
to  take  his  leave,  saying  : 

"  I  will  come  to  see  you  again  to-morrow.  Until  then,  good- 
by." 

"  Good-by,  my  good  friend,"  said  Linda,  returning  the 
friendly  pressure  of  the  hand. 

From  the  window  she  watched  him  as  he  drove  off,  smiling 
a  last  adieu,  as  was  his  custom.  She  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  wept  bitterly.  She  was  still  so  feeble  from  her 
long  sickness,  the  slight  effort  of  conversing  with  the  Doctor 
completely  unnerved  her.  With  an  impatient  yearning,  she 
cried  aloud : 

"Oh,  what  a  tiresome,  unreal  month  this  has  been.  Not 
one  tender,  affectionate  word  during  all  my  suffering.  Only 
the  Doctor  was  really  kind.  All  my  prayers  for  death  have 
availed  nothing.  Still,  I  am  not  entirely  forgotten,  for  in  the 
midst  of  my  desolation  another  friend  comes  to  me.  Blessings 
seem  to  spring  from  the  very  shadows  of  curses." 

She  threw  herself  wearily  upon  the  sofa.     Her  thoughts  wan- 


FREE    PRISONERS.  1/3 

dered  back  to  the  dear  old  times  with  Walter  and  Nellie,  and 
she  chafed  impatiently  at  the  weeks  that  must  elapse  before 
those  happy  days  would  come  again.  Then  came  the  over 
whelming  thought  —  perhaps  she  was  really  married  to  the  Major. 
If  so,  what  should  she  do  —  what  could  she  do  ?  Again,  like 
the  ever-varying  kaleidoscope,  old  memories  passed  before  her. 
She  was  happy  with  Walter  or  Mrs.  Neal.  Ben  was  in  trouble 
again,  and  she  was  trying  to  liberate  him.  Then  came  the  sad, 
sweet  face  of  Lucy,  as  she  had  left  her  at  her  cabin  door  — 
until  all  became  a  confused  mass,  and  she  slept. 

It  was  dusk  when  she  was  awakened  by  the  entrance  of  her 
nurse,  with  a  tray  of  tempting  delicacies.  While  she  was  par 
taking  sparingly  of  her  evening  meal,  the  nurse  said  : 

' '  I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Warren,  that  I  have  to  leave  you  to 
night,  but  my  time  is  up ;  and  I  should  have  gone  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Going  away?"  asked  Linda,  surprised.  "Do  not  leave 
me,  Margaret ;  you  have  been  so  kind  and  pleasant,  I  cannot 
get  along  without  you." 

"  I  am  just  as  sorry  to  go  as  you  are  to  have  me,"  answered 
Margaret.  "But  Major  Warren  has  paid  me  my  wages,  and 
told  me  I  could  go,  for  you  were  so  well  now  you  did  not 
need  my  services  any  longer,  and  Ann  could  bring  up  your 
meals. ' ' 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  must  go,"  said  Linda;  "but  I  will  be 
very  lonely  without  you.  You  have  made  many  weary  hours 
pass  pleasantly,  Margaret." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  If  I  have  done  you  good  service,  I 
did  only  my  duty,  and  was  well  paid  for  it." 

"You  have  done  more  than  you  were  paid  for,"  said  Linda, 
kindly.  "  And  if  I  can  ever  do  anything  for  you,  come  to  me 
without  hesitation." 


FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Margaret,  quite  moved  by  Linda's 
disinterested  kindness.  "  You  are  sweet  .and  good,  indeed,  and 
I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness  to  me.  Oh,  bless  me  !  I 
almost  forgot.  Here  are  all  those  Nevada  papers  you  wanted, 
for  a  whole  month  back,  pinned  up  in  my  petticoat,  and  I  liked 
to  have  gone  away  with  them." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Linda,  taking  them,  hurriedly. 

She  looked  over  each  paper  carefully  until  she  came  to  the 
date  of  Ben's  trial.  During  the  long  month  of  her  sickness, 
as  soon  as  consciousness  returned,  she  had  thought  continually 
of  him,  yet  did  not  dare  ask  questions.  Now,  after  long  and 
patient  waiting,  she  had  the  whole  truth  before  her.  She 
thought  she  was  prepared  for  anything,  and  had  given  up  all 
hope,  but  when  she  read  over  the  trial,  and  found  it  was  just  as 
Ben  had  said,  her  heart  grew  faint.  The  teamster  swore  Ben 
was  the  man  who  had  robbed  him.  His  partners  could  only 
say  that  he  was  absent  from  home  that  evening  hunting,  al 
though  that  was  his  habit ;  he  had  remained  out  later  than  usual 
on  that  particular  evening,  and  was  still  away  at  the  time  the 
teamster  was  robbed.  Nothing  could  be  done  in  Ben's  favor. 
He  had  no  evidence  to  offer,  only  his  solemn  oath  that  he  was 
an  innocent  man.  And  what  regard  has  a  judge  of  justice  for 
the  oath  of  a  highwayman  ?  The  trial  was  short,  but  decisive, 
and  Ben  Wetherell  was  sentenced  to  imprisonment,  in  the  State's 
prison  at  San  Quentin,  for  the  term  of  seven  years. 

When  Linda  had  finished  reading,  she  leaned  back  as  life 
less  and  hopeless  as  if  every  ray  of  sunshine  had  been  forever 
shut  out  from  her  soul.  She  thought  she  was  prepared  for  the 
worst,  but  all  frail  mortals  will  hope  even  when  there  is  no 
hope.  When  Pandora  let  the  miseries  out  over  the  earth,  she 
kept  back  hope  to  cheer  us,  but  so  cunningly,  that  hope,  when 
disappointed,  proves  only  a  misery  in  disguise. 


FREE    PRISONERS. 


Linda  sat  as  if  stupefied.  She  tried  to  arrange  some  plans  for 
the  future,  but  could  not  concentrate  her  ideas  sufficiently  to 
think  of  anything  but  her  brother,  in  his  lonely  cell  that  night 
in  State's  prison. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

DEMANDING   THE    PLEDGE. 

THE  little  clock  on  the  mantle  struck  ten  :  Linda  started,  sur 
prised  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  She  had  just  risen  to 
retire,  when  there  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door,  and  Major 
Warren  entered.  Although  Linda  was  alarmed  at  the  unusual 
familiarity,  she  demanded,  with  dignity : 

"What  is  your  errand  at  this  late  hour,  Major  Warren?  " 

The  Major  smiled,  as  he  said,  sarcastically:  "That  is  a 
strange  question  for  a  wife  to  ask  her  husband,  because  he 
comes  to  her  room  unannounced,  when  they  have  been  married 
a  month." 

"Sir,"  said  Linda,  defiantly,  "I  do  not  believe  I  am  mar 
ried  to  you  at  all,  and  never  will,  until  you  give  me  positive 
proofs. ' ' 

"Girl,"  said  the  Major,  furiously,  "you  will  find  no  nig 
gard  fool  in  me.  I  promised  your  mother,  at  your  request,  not 
to  claim  you  for  one  month  after  our  marriage.  Your  sickness 
has  kept  us  more  apart  than  I  desired,  but  your  month  is  up  to 
day,  and  I  claim  the  rights  of  a  husband." 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  where  and  by  whom  we  were  mar 
ried  ?  "  asked  Linda,  with  ill-feigned  coolness. 

"Your  memory  seems  remarkably  short,"   said  the  Major, 


1/6  FREE    PRISONERS. 

curtly.  "We  were  married  in  Grass  Valley,  one  month  ago  to 
day,  by  the  justice  of  the  peace." 

"  Major  Warren,  there  is  something  wrong  about  this." 
Linda  trembled  visibly.  "  I  still  do  not  believe  I  am  your 
wife,  and  if  I  am,  it  shall  only  be  in  name  —  I  will  never  be 
a  wife  to  you  !  " 

"Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool?"  asked  the  enraged  Major. 
"I  will  show  you  who  is  master  in  this  house.  As  your  hus 
band,  I  will  either  bend  or  break  you." 

He  made  a  motion  as  if  to  grasp  her  arm,  but  Linda,  who 
was  standing  near  a  window,  threw  up  the  sash  and  sprang 
into  it. 

"Not  one  step  nearer,  sir,  or  I  will  throw  myself  from  this 
window,"  almost  shrieked  the  frightened  girl. 

"  Fool  !  "  hissed  the  Major.  "  Don't  you  know  that  would 
be  instant  death." 

He  took  another  step  nearer. 

"I  tell  you  again,  keep  off.  I  know  in  all  probability  it 
would  be  death  to  fall  from  here,  but  death  would  be  welcome, 
rather  than  life  with  you  and  that  woman  in  the  other  room." 

Linda's  pale  face  and  firm  manner  forced  the  Major  to  retreat 
a  few  steps. 

"I  cannot  expect  much  from  one  who  speaks  so  disrespect 
fully  of  her  kind  and  worthy  mother."  He  stopped  a  second, 
but  receiving  no  answer,  continued,  in  a  more  subdued  manner, 
"  I  did  not  expect  much  love  from  you,  but  I  certainly  felt 
I  could  command  your  respect." 

"Major  Warren,  I  despise  any  man  who  would  persevere,  as 
you  have,  in  marrying  a  young  girl  whom  he  knew  did  not  love 
him,  and  never  would.  If  we  are  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  mar 
ried,  it  is  without  my  consent  or  knowledge,  and  there  is  no 
law  that  can  compel  me  to  live  with  you.  Leave  me." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  1/7 

"Leave  you?"  said  the  Major,  fiercely.  "I  will  not  leave 
you,  you  scrap  of  a  disgraced  family.  What  your  noble,  gen 
erous,  heart-grieved  mother  can  endure,  I  may  be  able  to  bear 
in  part." 

"  Major  Warren  !"  said  Linda,  fiercely,  "leave  this  room. 
I  will  not  get  down  from  this  open  window  until  you  have 
gone." 

"You  are  weak  and  sick,  I  know,"  said  the  Major,  finding 
'it  was  useless  to  parley  with  her.  "  I  have  still  a  little  feeling 
of  humanity  left.  Get  down  from  that  window.  I  will  give 
you  still  another  week  to  think  this  matter  over;  if  you  then 
persist  in  your  stupid  stubbornness,  you  shall  bear  the  conse 
quence  of  my  just  anger." 

The  door  closed  after  him,  and  Linda  hastened  to  draw  the 
bolt,  their  she  threw  herself  upon  the  lounge,  where  she  lay  a 
long  time  before  she  was  able  to  undress  and  retire. 

When  the  Doctor  called  the  next  day,  she  felt  her  good 
friend,  after  all,  could  be  of  little  service.  She  could  not  con 
fide  to  him  the  scene  of  the  previous  evening,  lest  he  might 
condemn  her  conduct  toward  the  Major ;  so  the  conversation 
was  principally  concerning  her  health.  He  told  her  all  she  re 
quired  was  a  good  tonic,  gentle  exercise,  and  nutritious  food, 
and  in  a  few  weeks  she  would  be  as  well  as  ever  again.  If  the 
next  day  was  pleasant,  she  could  go  out  riding  a  little  while, 
and  he  bade  her  a  friendly  good-morning. 

He  had  only  been  gone  a  short  time,  when  Mrs.  Wetherell 
entered,  dressed  for  a  ride.  She  walked  to  the  window,  and 
looking  out,  said  indifferently,  "Your  friends,  the  Grays, 
were  at  the  Orleans  Hotel  yesterday  on  their  way  East.  Why, 
the  Major  has  returned  already,"  and  dashing  out  of  the  room, 
seemed  perfectly  contented,  knowing  she  had  said  enough  to 
make  Linda  very  miserable  all  that  afternoon. 

M 


1/8  FREE    PRISONERS. 

An  hour  after  the  Major  and  Mrs.  Wetherell  had  gone,  Ann 
came  to  ask  Linda's  permission  to  visit  her  sister,  who  was  very 
ill.  "  If  Mrs.  Warren  would  not  be  too  lonesome,  for  the  Major 
and  Mrs.  Wetherell  would  not  be  home  until  late." 

"  How  far  is  it  to  your  sister's?  "  asked  Linda. 

"It  is  about  half  a  mile,"  said  Ann;  "but  it  won't  take 
me  a  great  while. ' ' 

"  I  do  not  mind  being  alone,  Ann,"  said  Linda,  thought 
fully.  ' '  You  can  go  to  see  your  sister,  and  remain  as  long  as 
you  like,  if  you  are  only  back  in  time  to  receive  the  Major  and 
mother. ' ' 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Ann,  going  away  delighted. 

"Now,"  thought  Linda,  "is  my  time;  when  will  I  have 
another  opportunity  like  this  ?  Great  God,  this  must  be  provi 
dential  !  What  a  superstitious  child  I  am  getting  to  be.  I 
honestly  believe,  if  I  keep  on  in  my  stupid  course,  and  made 
up  my  mind  to  cut  my  throat,  I  could  soon  convince  myself  it 
was  providential  it  should  be  done.  Oh,  Linda,  I  fear  it  is  a 
very  dim  star  that  rules  your  destiny ;  it  leaves  you  groping  in 
the  dark  so  much." 

She  sat  by  the  window  until  Ann  was  quite  out  of  sight, 
then,  with  a  smile,  she  energetically  addressed  herself:  "  Now, 
invalid,  you  must  work  industriously."  She  sprang  up  with 
her  old  elastic,  buoyant  step,  ready  for  anything,  almost  for 
getting  she  had  ever  been  ill. 

There  were  two  boys  playing  with  marbles  on  the  sidewalk 
below ;  she  had  been  watching  them  for  some  time ;  now  she 
called  to  them : 

"  Boys,  if  you  will  go  very  quickly,  and  bring  me  an  express 
wagon  to  take  a  trunk  to  the  express  office,  I  will  give  you 
each  a  dollar. ' ' 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  will,"  said  one. 


FREE    PRISONERS. 

"So '11  I,  ma'am,"  said  the  other. 

"But,"  said  Linda,  "you  must  bring  the  wagon  immediately, 
or  you  will  not  have  performed  your  part  of  the  bargain." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  one. 

"  Oh,  we  will,"  said  the  other,  as  he  went  tumbling  down 
the  steps,  saying,  "  Oh,  my  !  what  lots  of  marbles  we  '11  have." 

Not  many  of  Linda's  things  had  been  unpacked  during  her 
sickness,  so  it  was  only  the  work  of  a  few  moments  to  gather 
them  together ;  but  with  all  her  haste,  the  boys  were  back  before 
she  was  ready  for  them.  Breathless  they  rushed  up  the  steps, 
saying : 

"  He  's  come,  ma'am.     He  's  here." 

Linda  hastily  completed  her  work.  The  expressman  strapped 
her  trunk,  and  promised  to  send  it  at  once  to  the  address  of 
Mrs.  Neal.  He  was  to  engage  a  seat  in  the  stage  the  next  morn 
ing  for  Miss  Forbes  to  Nevada,  and  return  as  soon  as  possible 
with  the  receipt  for  her  trunk.  Away  went  the  wagon,  trunk, 
and  all. 

Linda  turned  from  the  window  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and 
there  stood  the  boys  looking  earnestly  at  her. 

"Oh,  boys,  I  almost  forgot  you,"  said  she,  smiling  at  their 
anxious  little  faces.  "You  must  not  tell  any  one  but  your 
mothers  how  you  got  this  money.  Run  along  now  and  finish 
your  game  of  marbles." 

The  expressman  was  so  long  in  returning,  Linda  became 
nervous  least  Ann  should  come  first ;  but,  to  her  delight,  he  had 
delivered  the  receipt  and  just  left  when  Ann's  freckled  face 
made  its  appearance  around  the  corner. 


ISO  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

THE    FLIGHT. 

'T^HE  first  pale  light  of  morning  had  scarcely  dawned  over 
the  horizon,  when  Linda  arose,  dressed  herself,  and  with 
satchel  in  hand  went  stealthily  down  the  stairs,  that  would 
give  back  an  answer  at  every  step,  despite  her  caution,  that 
made  her  heart  beat  violently.  Out  into  the  street  she  followed 
the  direction  the  expressman  had  taken,  and  soon  arrived  at 
the  Orleans  Hotel.  She  asked  the  privilege  of  looking  over 
the  hotel  register,  but  her  search  did  not  meet  with  the  success 
she  had  expected.  The  names  of  Walter  French,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Gray,  nurse,  and  two  children,  were  there  as  her  mother 
had  said,  but  she  could  not  find  her  father's  name.  The  clerk 
came  to  her  assistance,  and  every  name  was  carefully  read  over 
for  three  months  back,  but  no  one  by  the  name  of  Wetherell 
had  been  there. 

After  breakfast  the  stage  drove  up  to  the  door.  "All 
aboard  !  ' '  shouted  Cal  Crippen,  the  driver.  Linda  took  her 
place  on  the  back  seat. 

"All  aboard  here  for  Rough  and  Ready,  Grass  Valley,  Ne 
vada,  and  Red  Dog." 

Crack  went  the  long  whip,  and  the  four  little  mustangs  gave 
a  desperate  plunge  forward,  to  be  pulled  back  instantly  by  the 
muscular  Cal,  giving  the  occupants  a  sound  shaking. 

It  was  a  long,  tiresome  ride  of  thirteen  hours  to  Nevada. 
When  the  stage  stopped  at  Mrs.  Neal's  door,  the  good-hearted 
driver  handed  the  reins  to  a  passenger,  and  carefully  assisted 
the  exhausted  Linda  into  the  house. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  l8l 

"My  dear  child,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Neal,  "what  is  the 
matter  ? ' ' 

.    "I  have  been  .sick,  Mother  Neal,  but  am  well  again,  and  so 
glad  to  be  at  home  with  you." 

"Well  again,  darling?  Are  you  well  again?  You  are  only 
the  shadow  of  your  old  self,  child ;  but  we  will  take  good  care 
of  you,  dear,  and  soon  get  back  the  roses." 

The  door  opened,  and  Lucy  entered,  sad  and  pale.  Seeing 
Linda,  her  face  brightened  ;  she  put  her  arms  about  her  and  held 
her  to  her  heart,  as  she  said,  with  a  soft  wail : 

"  Oh,  Linda,  he  has  been  sent  away  ;  and  we  thought  you  had 
forgotten  us.  But  for  Mrs.  Neal,  baby  and  I  would  have  been 
desolate  indeed." 

"  Forget  you  ?  "  said  Linda.  "  You  do  not  know  me,  Lucy. 
I  have  a  sad,  broken  heart  for  a  young  girl,  but  it  is  honest  anc} 
true.  Forget  you  and  Mother  Neal?  Oh,  no." 

After  a  long  night's  rest,  Linda  arose  refreshed,  and  the  free 
dom  of  her  soul  seemed  to  bring  back  the  light  spirits  of  health. 
She  related  all  that  had  happened  since  the  evening  she  went 
away  in  company  with  her  mother.  Finally,  when  she  came  to 
the  fact  that  her  father's  name  was  not  on  the  register  of  the 
hotel  at  Sacramento,  Mrs.  Neal  expressed  her  belief  that  the 
whole  thing  had  been  a  plot  to  get  her  away. 

Linda  was  too  impatient  to  wait ;  so  a  carriage  was  sent  for, 
and  the  young  ladies  drove  out  to  Captain  Wetherell's  mill,  as 
Mrs.  Neal  declined  accompanying  them. 

They  were  met  by  John  Murphy,  who  very  laconically 
pointed  to  the  mound  under  the  great  pine,  when  Lucy  asked 
for  Captain  Wetherell.  Seeing  Linda's  pale  face,  lie  explained 
in  his  rough  way  all  about  the  accident  in  the  mine,  and  her 
father's  sudden  death,  Mrs.  Wetherell's  visit,  and  the  Captain's 
16 


l82  FREE    PRISONERS. 

burial.  Then  he  went  into  the  house  and  brought  out  a  large 
package  of  papers,  which  he  handed  to  Linda,  saying: 

"  He  gave  'em  to  me,  Miss,  for  you.  The  ould  lady  wanted 
'erfy  but  she  didn't  get  'em." 

Making  a  note  of  her  father's  death  and  burial,  Linda  bade 
the  faithful  John  good-by,  telling  him  where  he  could  find  her 
at  any  time,  and  assuring  him  when  the  estate  was  settled  he 
should  not  be  forgotten. 

Back  in  the  cottage  every  detail  was  gone  over  to  Mrs.  Neal. 
That  wise  mother  sat  long  in  earnest  thought,  then  insisting 
upon  Linda's  resting  awhile,  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl, 
without  any  explanations,  and  drove  at  once  to  Grass  Valley. 

An  examination  of  the  records  of  marriage  by  the  justice  of 
the  peace  proved  that  on  the  same  date  of  Captain  Wetherell's 
death,  and  the  same  evening  Linda  had  gone  away  with  her 
mother,  Major  William  Warren  had  married  Laura  Wetherell, 
instead  of  Linda.  The  joy  that  lighted  up  that  sweet,  motherly 
face,  with  its  crown  of  snowy  hair,  seemed  like  a  ray  of  glory 
from  the  very  throne  of  heaven. 

"  Back  home  as  fast  as  possible,"  she  said  to  the  driver,  as 
she  sprang  into  the  carriage  as  lightly  as  a  young  girl. 

The  four  miles  seemed  interminable.  As  she  found  Linda 
still  sleeping,  she  took  her  old  position  by  the  bedside, 
patiently  waiting  to  tell  her  the  joyful  tidings  of  her  perfect 
freedom.  Regarding  the  thin,  pale  face,  so  peacefully  calm  in 
its  refreshing  slumber,  Zedlitz's  lines  to  Mary  came  to  her  mind, 
and  she  repeated,  softly : 

•  "  Wie  schlafst  du  so  ruhig  und  traumest, 

Du  armer,  verlassener  Wurm, 
Es  donnert,  die  Tropfen  fallen, 
Die  Baume  schiittelt  der  Sturm  ! 


FREE    PRISONERS.  183 

"  Dein  Vater  hat  dich  vergessen, 

Dich  und  die  Mutter  dein ; 
Du  bist,  du  arme  Waise, 

Auf  der  weiten  Erde  allein !  " 

When  Linda  opened  her  eyes,  Mrs.  Neal  put  her  arms  affec 
tionately  about  her  neck  and  imprinted  a  fond  kiss  upon  her 
brow. 

"  At  your  old  post,  Mother  Neal.  If  you  only  knew  how 
happy  I  am  to  be  back  under  your  loving  care.  Nothing  can 
ever  get  me  away  again." 

"No,  darling,  nothing,"  and  Mrs.  Neal  stroked  Linda's 
forehead  caressingly.  "  Since  you  have  been  sleeping,  I  have 
been  to  Grass  Valley  to  look  over  the  marriage  records  of  the 
justice  of  the  peace ;  and,  dear,  they  say  that  Major  Warren  was 
married  to  Laura  Wetherell,  not  Linda." 

"  To  my  mother  !  "  exclaimed  Linda. 

"  Yes,  to  your  mother;  the  evening  of  the  day  your  father 
was  killed.  It  must  have  been  that  night  you  went  to  Grass 
Valley  from  here." 

"  Oh,  you  darling,  Mother  Neal !  what  glorious  news ! 
Then  I  am  the  same  old  Linda,  and  not  married ;  but  — ' ' 
The  joy  left  her  face,  and  she  leaned  wearily  back  upon  the  pil 
low,  "  Walter  has  gone  forever." 

"Perhaps  not,  child.  You  must  not  yield  to  despair  so 
easily.  Every  morning  begins  a  new  chapter  in  our  lives,  and 
often  the  saddest  openings  are  sometimes  the  most  joyous  end 
ings.  The  workings  of  life  are  sadly  irregular  and  hopelessly 
incomprehensible.  Some  of  us  do  not  live  one  life,  nor  two, 
but  many.  As  long  as  the  vital  organs  perform  their  functions, 
the  mechanisms  of  life  go  on  ;  but  the  senses  or  soul  of  man  live 
and  die  and  live  again.  Most  of  us,  looking  back,  can  remember 
when  life  was  dead  —  every  joy,  every  hope ;  and  if  the  beating 


184  FREE    PRISONERS. 

of  our  hearts  could  have  stopped,  how  gladly  the  weary  soul 
would  have  taken  its  flight.  But  the  heart  went  on  beating  to 
its  own  funeral,  until  new  hopes,  new  joys,  new  life  were  born 
out  of  the  old  one,  wholly  unlike,  and  seemingly  in  no  way 
related  to  it." 

"With  your  ideas,  you  cannot  dread  death,  Mother  Neal." 
"Death,  my  child,  only  relates  to  these  bodies,  and  surely 
there  can  be  nothing  to  dread  in  the  thought  that  we  can  one 
day  leave  these  aching,  tired,  decaying  tenements.  Scientists 
may  prate  of  nervous  centres  being  all  there  is  of  life.  It  is 
false  —  for  the  paralytic  has  still  his  life,  his  soul,  without  sen 
sibilities.  I  believe  we  have  more  than  one  soul — that  every 
human  being  is  possessed  of  two.  Life  is  a  perpetual  warfare 
between  right  and  wrong,  duty  and  inclination,  and  there  must 
be  conflicting  elements  to  make  contention.  One  soul  cannot 
fight  itself.  There  is  nothing  in  our  bodies  to  fight.  Without 
the  souls  they  are,  like  other  great  and  wonderful  machines, 
harmless  and  useless  until  set  in  motion  by  the  great  life-giving 
power,  steam.  Very  often  a  great  soul  enshrined  in  a  feeble 
casket  wears  it  out  prematurely,  with  its  perpetual  fretting  and 
longing  for  grander,  nobler  exploits.  To  my  poor  judgment, 
everything  indicates  two  persons  in  one,  two  ruling  spirits. 
We  often  start  out  under  the  dictation  of  one  soul,  and  the 
other,  under  what  we  term  circumstances,  interferes,  and  we 
do  exactly  the  reverse  of  our  first  intention.  We  have  not  a 
thought  that  cannot  be  opposed.  When  two  spirits  are  of 
equal  strength  it  leaves  a  vacillating  condition  of  mind,  never 
at  rest,  never  satisfied.  One  must  be  superior  to  the  other,  for 
good  or  bad,  to  make  a  decided  character,  and  even  then  the 
weaker  cries  ever  for  pre-eminence  and  power.  We  are  fear- 
lull  y  weak  and  ignorant  human  beings  to  be  made  in  the  like 
ness  of  God  himself;  for  His  commonest  attribute,  creation, 


FREE    PRISONERS.  I$5 

we  can  neither  understand  nor  imitate.  We  all  know  we  exist, 
yet  we  cannot  define  what  it  is.  My  dear  child,  when  we  can 
humbly  accept  our  position,  and  bow  reverently  to  the  Great 
Power  that  controls  us,  whatever  it  may  be  —  when  we  can  lay 
aside  our  importance,  and  realize  that  we  are  mere  atoms  of  a 
vast  machine,  run  by  an  all-wise  Creator,  knowing  no  more  of  the 
use  of  our  neighbor  machine  than  the  revolving  spoke  knows 
of  the  axle  upon  which  it  makes  its  revolutions,  then  we  can 
realize  that  the  Great  Creator,  who  had  use  for  us  here  in  our 
infancy,  can  need  us  for  something  better  after  the  purifying 
fires  of  His  chasten  ings/' 

"But  so  many  believe  in  annihilation  after  death,  perpetual 
rest,  eternal  sleep,"  suggested  Linda. 

"It  is  a  very  senseless  theory  to  me,  'Ex  nihilo  nihil fit? 
out  of  nothing,  nothing  is  made.  Nature  has  no  such  word 
as  nothing  in  her  vocabulary.  She  does  everything  for  some 
thing.  It  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  me  why  we  should 
have  been  created  for  so  much  rest,  when  there  is  so  much  in 
the  world  to  be  done,  and  so  short  a  time  to  accomplish  it. 
Surely  if  there  was  nothing  but  sleep  hereafter,  there  would  be 
less  of  it  here ;  for  man  sleeps  away  more  than  one-third  of  his 
life." 

"  Just  think  of  a  man  sixty  years  old,  having  slept  over  twenty 
years.  I  never  thought  of  it  before,"  said  Linda.  "Surely  one 
should  have  a  very  comfortable  bed,  when  so  much  more  time 
is  passed  there  than  anywhere  else  during  life." 

"Yes,  it  is  all-important,  for  the  bodies  require  much  rest; 
and  yet  every  organ  performs  its  duty  whether  sleeping  or 
waking,  though  in  sleep  more  sluggishly.  The  spirits 
never  rest.  They  go  out  while  we  sleep.  We  often  meet 
people  whom  we  feel  we  have  met  before,  and  so  we  have  in 
spirit.  When  we  swoon,  life  goes  out.  There  may  not  be  the 
16* 


l86  FREE    PRISONERS. 

slightest  defect  in  the  human  organization,  yet  a  sudden  shock 
may  lay  it  apparently  lifeless.  Everything  is  there  —  nerves, 
brains,  and  all,  in  perfect  working  order  —  yet  stopped  because 
the  appalled  spirits  have  fled.  Sometimes,  when  you  sleep, 
dear,  your  longing,  unsatisfied  soul  will  go  out  to  that  of  Walter, 
and  you  will  meet  again." 

"  How  hopefully  you  talk,"  said  Linda,  encouraged. 

"I  feel  what  I  say,  dear,  for  I  have  some  place  a  daughter, 
a  little  older  than  yourself;  and  I  am  sure  I  have  been  with 
her  sometimes,  for  I  awake  refreshed  in  body  and  satisfied  in 
mind." 

"You  promised  long  ago  to  tell  me  about  her,  Mother 
Neal." 

"  Yes,  child,  if  you  can  listen  to  such  a  sad  story,  I  will  tell 
you  how  I  lost  my  babies,"  and  Mrs.  Neal  related,  with  the 
pathos  of  a  broken-hearted  mother,  all  the  terrors  of  that  dark, 
stormy  night,  and  the  darker  dawn  for  her. 

Linda  sat  as  if  spell-bound,  listening  to  every  word.  Then 
turning  her  great  brown  eyes  upon  Mrs.  Neal,  exclaimed  : 

"Why,  Mother  Neal,  I  have  heard  that  story  before." 

Mrs.  Neal  started  nervously.'  "Heard  that?  How  could 
you  have  heard  it  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Warren  told  me,  in  relating  the  history  of  his  adopted 
daughter,  Alice.  It  was  he  who  lived  opposite  to  you.  It  was 
his  wife  you  watched  so  tenderly,  and  he  has  still  that  little 
girl  that  was  left  with  you." 

"Yes,  it  was  Mrs.  Warren  I  was  with;  but  Warren  is  not  a 
remarkable  name,  and  I  never  expected  to  hear  of  them  again. 
Besides,  you  never  mentioned  his  adopted  daughter.  Poor 
child,"  slie  said,  thoughtfully,  "I  wonder  if  that  dark  mys 
tery  will  ever  be  solved  ?  ' ' 

"  I  hope  so,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Linda,  earnestly. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  187 

"  My  child,  I  must  hold  my  daughter  to  my  heart  as  I  hold 
you  now,  or  I  could  not  die  contentedly."  And  the  tears  that 
came  to  the  longing  mother's  eyes,  might  have  been  drops  of 
life-blood  wrung  from  her  heart. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

THE    FATAL    SECRET. 

MAJOR  WARREN  and  Mrs.  Wetherell  were  greatly  alarmed 
at  Linda's  mysterious  disappearance.  All  possible  search 
was  made  to  no  purpose  —  not  the  slightest  trace  could 
be  found.  They  supposed  she  had  gone  back  to  Nevada,  but 
her  registering  as  Miss  Forbes  quite  misled  them. 

"  I  will  write  to  a  friend  of  mine  in  Nevada,  upon  whom  I 
can  rely,  without  creating  any  suspicions,"  said  the  Major,  one 
evening,  as  he  unfolded  the  paper  and  began  reading. 

"It  would  be  shocking  to  have  a  disgraceful  scandal  about 
your  runaway  wife,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell.  "I  feel  convinced 
she  is  in  Nevada,  and  as  soon  as  you  can  ascertain  to  a  cer 
tainty,  I  will  quietly  go  and  bring  her  back." 

"Halloo!  what  is  this?"  The  Major  dropped  his  paper, 
and  stared  at  Mrs.  Wetherell. 

"Why,  Major,  have  you  seen  a  ghost?"  asked  Mrs.  Weth 
erell,  smiling. 

"A  ghost!"  ejaculated  the  Major.  "Almost,  madam," 
and  he  lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper.  "  Did  you  know 
your  husband  was  dead  ?  ' ' 

"  My  husband  dead  !  Major,  you  joke,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell, 
with  a  forced  smile,  and  a  shade  paler  than  usual. 


l88  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"Read  this."  The  Major  thrust  the  paper  into  her  hand. 
"The  will  of  Richard  Wetherell,  of  Grass  Valley,  was  filed 
in  the  probate  court  on  Monday  last." 

"Merciful  heaven!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wetherell,  dropping 
her  head  upon  her  hands.  Her  whole  frame  shook  convul 
sively.  It  was  well  done ;  that  woman,  whose  every  act  in  life 
was  a  lie,  played  her  part  to  the  end.  There  were  no  partic 
ulars,  only  the  simple  statement. 

The  Major,  really  quite  affected,  led  her  to  her  room,  earn 
estly  entreating  her  to  bear  patiently  the  cross  common  to  all. 
He  sat  down  at  once  and  wrote  to  an  attorney  in  behalf  of  Mrs. 
Wetherell' s  interest  in  her  husband's  estate,  and  also  to  ascer 
tain  if  the  daughter  was  at  Mrs.  Neal's. 

A  few  days  later,  Mrs.  Wetherell,  robed  in  deep  mourning, 
with  a  very  becoming  widow's  cap,  sat  awaiting  the  Major's 
return  to  dinner.  The  door  opened,  and  the  usually  benign, 
amiable  Major  stalked  into  the  room,  his  face  livid,  and  his 
eyes  bloodshot. 

"My  dear  Major,  what  has  happened?"  asked  Mrs.  Weth 
erell,  going  toward  him. 

He  waved  her  back  with  his  hand,  looking  her  steadily  in 
the  face  with  a  hard  expression  hitherto  wholly  unknown  to 
him,  and  handing  her  a  letter,  he  growled  savagely:  "Read 
that!" 

Mrs.  Wetherell  took  the  paper,  and,  as  she  read,  her  face 
blanched. 

MAJOR  WARREN. 

DEAR  SIR  : — You  have  requested  me  to  look  after  Mrs.  Weth- 
erelfs  interest  in  her  husband's  estate,  whose  real  name,  by  the 
way,  was  Richard  Neal,  instead  of  Wetherell.  The  will  gives 
her  one-third  in  case  she  never  marries  again ;  in  that  event, 
nothing.  As  she  was  married  in  Grass  Valley  the  day  of  her 


FREE    PRISONERS.  189 

husband's   death,   to   William   Warren,   she   has   forfeited    all 
claim. 

Your  obedient  servant, 

MARK  WINTERS, 

Attorney-at-Law. 

As  her  face  blanched,  the  Major-  grew  more  livid.  There 
was  a  demoniac  glare  from  his  gray  eyes.  .His  breathing  was 
heavy  and  irregular.  He  grasped  her  by  the  arm  and  screamed 
into  her  ear,  "  Tell  me,  woman,  is  that  true  or  false  ?  " 

For  once,  the  woman  who  had  moulded  all  obstacles  to  her 
will  was  awe-stricken.  She  dropped  the  paper ;  her  chin  fell 
upon  her  breast.  She  tried  several  times  to  articulate,  but 
seemed  incapable. 

"  Tell  me,  woman  !  "  and  the  iron  grasp  of  the  Major's  hand 
sent  a  sharp  cry  of  pain  from  the  statue- like  figure  before  him. 

"It  is— "  she  began. 

"  Don't  you  dare  to  lie  to  me  !  "  hissed  the  Major  between  his 
teeth,  and  the  iron  grasp  tightened  ;  "  speak,  or  I  '11  kill  you  !  " 

The  miserable  woman  gasped,  rather  than  spoke,  "It — is — 
true." 

With  one  effort  of  his  strong  arm  he  flung  her  from  him 
across  the  room.  Regarding  her  senseless  form  with  a  fiendish 
grin,  he  paced  the  floor  like  a  wild  beast.  The  form  before 
him  moved,  gradually  raised  herself  upon  her  hand,  and  with 
the  other  felt  her  head,  while  she  stared  about  vacantly. 

The  Major,  with  his  arms  crossed  over  his  breast,  stood  re 
garding  her  with  bitter  defiance  : 

"  Do  not  muss  your  widow's  cap,  Mrs.  Wetherell.  I  forgot 
—  you  are  —  no  !  I  swear  —  you  never  shall  be  called  Mrs. 
Warren.  Such  a  devil  my  wife  !  It  must  have  been  a  sacred 
rite  that  bound  your  cursed,  lying  self  to  me.  You,  monster, 
are  the  mother  of  a  lovely,  artless  girl,  whom  I  condemned 


IQO  FREE    PRISONERS. 

i 

because  you  did  —  whom  you  would  have  vilely  prostituted, 
under  sacred  garbs,  and  for  what,  God  only  knows." 

"  For  money  !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Wetherell. 

"  For  money !  There  are  women  who  sell  their  own  souls 
for  money ;  but  a  mother  who  could  sell  her  innocent  child  is 
too  vile  a  thing  for  hell !  " 

"  Hell !  "  moaned  Mrs.  Wetherell.  "  Hell !  I  've  had  it  all 
my  life." 

"  And  if  you  have  it  through  all  eternity,  too,  the  devil  will 
not  get  even  with  you." 

Where  was  the  affable,  courteous  Major  Warren  ?  There  was 
not  a  shadow  of  the  old  Major  left.  His  very  features  seemed 
to  have  changed,  as  he  stood  with  outstretched  hand  pointing 
toward  the  door,  and,  with  voice  hoarse  and  discordant,  com 
manded  : 

"  Go  to  your  room,  madam  !  " 

The  frightened  woman  tried  to  obey,  but  fell  back  exhausted. 

"  Go  to  your  room,  I  say !  "  thundered  the  Major. 

She  made  another  desperate  effort,  and  by  the  aid  of  a  chair 
and  the  wall  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  when  she  sank  help 
less. 

The  merciless  Major  following,  still  with  outstretched  hand 
pointing  the  way,  said  again,  "Go  !  " 

She  turned  her  great  black  eyes  upon  him — so  strangely 
glaring  and  cowed — and  slowly  climbed  on  her  hands  and  knees, 
step  by  step,  until  she  reached  the  top,  then  fell  prostrate. 

That  night  was  a  busy  one  in  the  Major's  house,  which  the 
still,  balmy  morning  seemed  to  smile  at.  In  the  rear  of  the 
house,  back  of  the  twining  roses,  was  a  window,  on  the  inside 
of  which  were  great  iron  bars,  and  the  door  was  heavily  bolted. 
On  the  bed  lay  a  pale  woman  with  staring  eyes,  that  seemed 
the  loopholes  of  a  sepulchre,  and  the  room  was  a  living  tomb. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  Ipl 

CHAPTER   XXXV. 

UNDERCURRENTS    IN    PRISON. 

ROSE-TINTS  of  morning  were   playing   on    the   rippling 
waves,  as  the  waters  of  the  San  Francisco  Bay  swept  the 
sands  and  bore  them  away — wailing  a  low  refrain  over 
the  dead  night,  and  sighing  at  the  dawning  day.     Afar  off  was 
Mount  Tamelpais,  capped  with  floating  clouds,  that  in  their 
fleecy  rose-tints  seemed  stray  blushes  from  the  mist  maiden's 
cheeks. 

On  the  bleak  and  barren  promontory,  with  its  great  stone 
walls,  under  the  very  smile  of  the  soft- tinted  Tamelpais,  was 
the  prison  of  San  Quentin.  Click,  click,  click.  In  quick  suc 
cession  the  iron  doors  swung  back,  and  the  hundreds  of  doomed 
mortals,  expiating  their  sins,  came  out  in  their  striped  felon's 
clothes,  passed  over  to  the  eating-hall,  where  they  partook  of 
the  plain  prison  fare,  then  out  into  God's  sunshine,  that  will 
smile  upon  the  good  and  the  bad  alike.  It  was  Sunday,  an 
idle  day.  Some  collected  in  groups,  and  in  loud  bravado 
boasted  of  their  exploits  in  the  crimes  that  brought  them  there, 
while  others,  less  inured  to  vice,  drank  in  the  unwholesome 
lesson  for  future  use.  Some  in  silence  and  alone  walked  up  and 
down,  while  their  hungry  souls  went  out  in  search  of  happi 
ness,  or  were  turned  inward,  seeking  peace  in  memory's  granary 
—  away  back  — before  temptations  came  and  the  iron  hand  of 
fate  ground  their  souls  to  the  dust. 

Apart  sat  Ben  Wetherell,  with  his  hand  full  of  letters.  A 
letter  was  part  of  Ben's  every-day  existence.  Twice  a  week 
the  three  faithful  women  wrote.  So  he  received  a  letter  every 
day,  excepting  Sunday,  and  on  that  day,  when  he  had  more 


192  FREE    PRISONERS. 

leisure,  he  read  them  all  over.  This  Sunday  his  eyes  were 
moist,  as  he  sat  intently  gazing  at  a  photograph  —  his  baby's 
likeness.  An  old,  gray-headed  man  came  up  and  accosted 
him.  Ben  startled  in  surprise  at  the  sound  of  the  well-known 
voice. 

"  Why,  Walker,  are  you  back  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  glad  to  get  back,"  was  the  hopeless  reply. 

"You  cannot  mean  what  you  say?  "  said  Ben,  in  astonish 
ment. 

"  Yes,  Wetherell,  I  mean  what  I  say.  You  know  I  had  been 
here  ten  years — that  is,  prison  years,  for  I  always  got  my 
credits  for  good  behavior,  —  and  when  I  went  into  the  world 
again  I  was  like  a  cat  in  a  strange  garret.  Nobody  knew 
me,  or  wanted  to  —  nobody  wanted  a  felon  to  work  for  him. 
I  got  hungry,  and  stole  to  get  back  here.  I  have  no  relations 
with  the  world  any  more,  Wetherell,  and  before  my  next  ten 
years  are  up,  it  will  all  be  up  with  me,  too,  and  it  will  be  best 
so." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Ben,  in  deepest  pity,  "have  you 
no  friends  ?  ' ' 

"  Friends?  A  State' s-prison  bird  have  friends?  ha,  ha,"  and 
Walker  laughed  a  hard,  hollow  laugh. 

Catching  a  glimpse  of  the  baby's  picture  and  the  pile  of 
letters,  a  softer  expression  passed  over  his  face,  and  he  said, 
politely : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Wetherell.  I  forgot  you  are  one  of 
the  few  lucky  dogs  who  has  friends.  For  my  part,  I  agree  with 
the  minstrel  who  said,  '  Every  dog  must  have  his  day; '  but  he 
had  come  to  the  conclusion  there  were  more  dogs  than  days. 
But,  Wetherell,"  and  Walker's  voice  grew  soft  and  musical, 
*'  I  had  friends  once. 


FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  '  My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years  ; 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 

As  men's  have  grown,  from  sudden  fears; 
My  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil. 
And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd  and  barr'd-r-  forbidden  fare.' 


"  Twelve  years  ago  I  came  to  California  with  my  family  —  a 
wife  so  sweet  and  fondly  true,  that  she  seemed  a  waif  from 
heaven's  throne.  We  had  been  married  ten  years,  and  ten 
such  years  of  happiness  are  not  often  allotted  to  man.  Young, 
earnest,  and  full  of  health,  we  walked  the  path  of  life  hand  in 
hand,  sharing  every  joy  and  sorrow,  every  thought  and  care  — 
at  least,  I  thought  so  then  ;  but  since  I  have  often  fancied  Mary 
kept  many  weary,  anxious  thoughts  from  me.  We  had  three 
children,  the  oldest  a  girl  nine  years  of  age.  The  other  two 
were  boys,  seven  and  five  years  old.  When  I  look  back,  I  re 
member  my  Mary  never  complained,  never  fretted  ;  and  yet  I 
know  there  were  times  when  she  would  come  and  rest  her  head 
on  my  shoulder,  with  a  faint,  weary  sigh,  that  comes  to  me 
after  all  these  years,  and  tells  me  what  I  could  not  see  then, 
that  her  life  was  going  away  —  but  I  weary  you.  '  ' 

"  No,  indeed,  Walker  ;  talk  on.  It  does  one  good  some 
times." 

"  Well,  we  came  to  California,  the  land  of  gold  and  promise  ; 
brought  with  us  all  our  possessions,  which  were  not  very  much, 
and  rented  a  little  house,  but,  with  the  best  of  recommendations, 
it  was  two  months  before  I  obtained  a  clerkship  in  a  bank.  I 
had  been  employed  six  months  when  I  was  taken  ill  with 
17  N 


194  FREE    PRISONERS. 

typhoid  fever,  which  confined  me  to  the  house  for  weeks.  As 
soon  as  I  was  able,  I  went  to  the  bank,  but,  to  my  horror,  I  had 
been  superseded,  and  there  was  no  vacancy.  Our  resources 
were  almost  gone,  and  my  wife  was  expecting  soon  to  add  a 
little  member  to  our  household.  Day  after  day  I  searched  for 
work,  but  without  success.  Finally  my  wife  became  sick,  and 
on  me  devolved  the  care  of  the  other  children.  Wetherell,  can 
you  imagine  how  I  felt,  when  I  discovered  what  my  wife  had 
hidden  from  me  ?  The  last  morsel  of  food  had  been  eaten,  and 
we  were  positively  destitute.  The  dear,  pale  wife  had  almost 
starved  herself  to  keep  the  shocking  truth  from  me.  To  be  a 
man,  with  all  the  pride  of  manhood,  enfeebled  from  sickness, 
and  stand  by  helpless,  while  those  we  love  suffer  for  the  neces 
saries  of  life  —  great  God!  what  torture.  So  the  tempter 
came.  The  man  I  had  served,  though  a  man  of  family,  had  a 
mistress,  to  whom  he  gave  monthly  the  generous  check  of  two 
thousand  dollars.  I  had  blanks,  and  knew  his  signature  fatally 
well.  I  had  always  been  an  adept  with  my  pen.  I  wrote  the 
check  ;  it  was  cashed.  Then  I  laughed  in  my  heart  to  think 
I  had  so  cunningly  fooled  the  harlot  out  of  her  ill-gotten  gains, 
and  my  good,  suffering  wife  could  have  the  comforts  of  life. 
I  must  have  been  mad  to  have  hoped  for  success.  My  gift  at 
imitation  was  well  known,  and  betrayed  me.  I  was  lodged  in 
jail,  and  my  sick  wife  and  starving  children  left.  My  God  ! 
man,  that  thought  maddens  me  to  this  hour.  For  months  I 
languished  in  a  crowded  jail,  then  was  sentenced  to  ten  years 
here.  My  Mary  faded  like  a  flower,  and  died  before  I  came, 
and  the  baby  went  with  her.  The  other  children  were  sent  to 
an  orphan  asylum.  The  years  went  by,  and  I  was  released,  with 
still  some  of  the  hopes  of  a  man,  to  find  my  sons  had  both  died, 
and  my  daughter  was  an  outcast. ' ' 

The  man's  head  fell  lower  between  his  stooping  shoulders, 


FREE    PRISONERS.  195 

and  the  two  sat  long  in  silence.     Ben  could  understand  how  it 
was  he  had  no  relations  with  the  world. 

He  handed  him  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Neal,  saying,  "  Read  that." 
Walker  took  it  mechanically,  and  read  : 

NEVADA,  June  20. 

MY  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIEND  :  —  The  melancholy  tenor  of  your 
letters  grieves  me.  Be  not  so  oppressed  by  your  bondage,  for, 
after  all,  Ben,  we  are  all  prisoners.  Every  heart  is  a  prison- 
house  bound  by  fetters,  invisible  to  the  human  eye,  but  surely 
bound.  There  is  not  one  soul  upon  the  face  of  the  earth  entirely 
satisfied,  and,  unfortunately,  the  more  refined  the  feelings  and 
cultivated  the  intellect,  the  more  perplexing  and  unreal  becomes 
this  ever-revolving  treadmill  called  life. 

It  has  been  wisely  said,  "there  is  nothing  new  under  the 
sun."  Your  experience,  is  an  old  story  of  life,  only  differently 
worded.  The  inevitable  is  submission  to  fate,  and  inevitable 
fate  is  sorrow.  The  youngest  heart  has  the  germ  that  will  bind 
it  sooner  or  later.  Deck  it  in  gorgeous  apparel,  link  it  with 
jewels,  the  chain  of  sorrow  ever  so  deep  is  surely  hidden  in  the 
human  heart.  Perfect  happiness  has  been  and  is,  but  no  orie 
dare  say  it  is  his,  for  it  is  turned  to  ashes  by  a  breath  from 
heaven,  and  fades  like  the  rose-tints  of  morning.  Each  thinks 
his  lot  the  hardest,  and  we  are  given  to  envying  our  neighbor's 
peace  and  contentment,  but  when  the  veil  is  raised  there  is 
neither  peace  nor  contentment  there,  because  man  is  ever  long 
ing  for  what  he  does  not  possess,  and  craves  what  he  cannot 
attain.  '  Labor  as  he  will,  the  summit  of  his  ambitions  is  never 
attained,  because  every  success  opens  a  new  vista  of  glory,  and 
after  a  life  of  toil,  in  the  very  zenith  of  his  power,  like  Moses, 
he  dies  on  the  threshold  of  success.  Another  takes  up  the 
burden  where  he  left  off,  but  it  is  incomprehensible  and  beyond 
him.  He,  too,  must  take  the  first  step  on  the  ladder,  and  each 
round  at  a  time,  and  possibly  reach  a  few  degrees  higher  than 
his  predecessor,  but  the  result  is  quite  as  unsatisfactory  and  in 
complete.  So  man,  in  his  self-righteousness,  goes  on  working 
over  and  over  the  old  clay  that  composed  the  earth  centuries 
ago,  pulling  down  and  building  up  —  like  the  sweeping  waves 
of  ocean,  washing  away  the  sands  on  one  shore  to  strand  them 
on  another. 


196  FREE    PRISONERS. 

It  impresses  me  rather  strangely,  that  in  your  physical  bond 
age,  your  soul  should  yearn  so  for  the  material  instead  of  the 
spiritual,  and  you  avoid  using  the  name  of  God,  my  dear,  which 
grieves  me.  I  would  have  you  bow  submissively  and  rever 
ently  before  the  Great  Power  that  controls  us ;  whose  mandate 
is  supreme,  divine ;  in  whom  we  live  and  have  our  being ; 
whose  laws  of  discipline  are  for  the  perfection  of  our  souls. 
Regard  it  in  that  light,  if  possible,  Ben.  Remember  you  are 
no  exception  —  every  soul  is  a  prisoner  —  free  agency  is  a  fallacy. 
There  is  no  perfect  freedom  for  mortals.  According  to  worldly 
interpretation,  I  am  free,  and  yet  if  my  longing  soul  could 
escape  from  the  body  that  holds  it,  and  go  out  into  the  world 
in  search  of  my  long  lost  beloved,  I  would  be  free.  As  it  is, 
I  am  a  pitiable  prisoner  to  the  decrees  of  fate.  While  your 
body  Is  in  bondage  your  soul  is  freer  than  mine,  for  it  has  its 
loved  ones,  and  your  mind  no  man  can  control.  No  one  is 
entirely  free,  body  and  soul.  We  are  all  free  prisoners,  serv 
ing  out  the  penalty  of  fallen  humanity.  It  is  the  curse  of  mor 
tality.  When  our  race  is  run,  our  time  is  served,  then  we  will 
be  free  to  accept  the  reward  of  our  long-suffering  penance. 
*  God  bless  you.  dear  Ben,  in  your  affliction,  and  always  be 
comforted  by  the  sweet  assurance  that  faithful  love  awaits  im 
patiently  your  release. 

Your  friend,  most  sincerely, 

AGNES  NEAL. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

JACK  HUNTER'S  UNFINISHED  STORY. 

A  THIRD  prisoner  had  joined  them  quietly  and  sat  down 
by  Ben,  listening  to  Walker.    After  a  long  silence,  he  said  : 
"Boys,  maybe  my  story  might  interest   you,   if  you 
would  like  to  hear  it." 

Ben  and  Walker  inclined  their  heads  affirmatively,  and  the 
speaker  began. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  197 

"  Twenty-five  years  ago  I  fell  in  love  with  a  minister's 
daughter.  Her  name  was  Agnes  White.  I  was  a  poor  country 
school-teacher,  scarcely  making  a  living  for  myself,  let  alone  a 
wife,  who  was  as  poor  as  I  was.  A  young  heart  can  love  as 
ardently  with  an  empty  purse  as  a  full  one ;  but  hearts  are  not 
so  easily  kindled  into  passion  without  the  blaze  of  gold  —  at 
least  I  thought  so  then,  now  I  see  I  might  have  been  mis 
taken.  We  cannot  force  the  fruit  before  the  blossom,  and  in 
my  hot  impetuosity  I  thought  her.  heart  must  respond  to  mine, 
no  matter  what  its  feelings  were. 

"  It  happened  at  that  time  there  was  a  steamboat  accident 
on  the  Mississippi.  Many  were  killed,  and  as  man£  more 
wounded.  Among  the  latter  was  the  captain,  who  was  taken 
to  Parson  White's,  and  for  weeks  lay  ill,  attended  by  the  par 
son's  wife  and  daughter,  Agnes,  their  only  child.  Agnes  read 
to  him  and  talked  to  him,  in  fact  was  his  constant  companion. 
I  went  sometimes  to  relieve  her,  but  soon  found  she  drooped 
her  eyes  and  blushed  when  I  spoke  of  the  captain,  and  he  was 
not  content  when  she  was  out  of  his  sight.  I  became  a  jealous 
monster,  continually  watching  and  scheming  to  get  rid  of  him  ; 
then  imagine  my  despair  when  I  heard,  one  day,  Agnes  had  been 
quietly  married  to  the  captain,  who  was  to  return  on  duty  at 
once.  He  did  not  take  her  with  him,  but  came  every  Saturday 
to  spend  Sunday  with  her. 

"  I  wandered  about  for  years,  and  returned  to  find  Agnes  the 
happy  mother  of  a  son  and  daughter.  All  my  old  love  for  her 
came  back,  and  my  jealous  hatred  for  her  husband  preyed  upon 
me  so  I  was  compelled  to  leave  that  part  of  the  world,  for  in 
my  innermost  soul  I  nursed  a  demon  of  revenge,  before  whom 
I  sometimes  quailed  myself. 

"I  went  to  New  Orleans,  obtained  employment,  and  strove 
manfully  to  tear  the  past  from  my  heart ;  but  the  hand  of  fate 
17* 


198  FREE    PRISONERS. 

was  upon  me.  I  was  a  doomed  mortal.  While  I  was  thus  try 
ing  to  bridge  over  the  past,  imagine  my  astonishment,  one  day, 
in  seeing  the  captain,  Agnes's  husband,  seated  in  an  open  car 
riage  with  a  dashing  beauty  by  his  side.  It  was  evidently  a 
private  carriage,  and  I  followed  it.  It  drove  into  the  grounds 
and  stopped  before  the  door  of  a  princely  mansion.  The  occu 
pants  alighted,  entered  the  house,  and  the  carriage  was  driven 
around  to  the  stable.  'So,'  I  thought,  'my  enemy  on  such 
intimate  terms  here.  What  can  it  mean  ? '  I  inquired  of  a 
policeman  who  lived  in  that  elegant  house.  He  answered, 
'Captain  Wetherell.'  " 

Ben  started  at  the  name,  and  the  speaker  looked  at  him 
strangely. 

"His  name  is  Wetherell,  you  know,  Jack?"  explained 
Walker. 

"  And  my  father  was  captain  of  a  Mississippi  steamboat, 
once,"  added  Ben.  "It  is  a  strange  coincidence." 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Jack,  stupidly,  as  if  he  could  not  com 
prehend.  "  May  I  ask  what  your  father's  first  name  is?  " 

"  My  father  is  dead.     His  name  was  Richard." 

Jack's  thin  lips  were  firmly  compressed  an  instant.  He  drew 
his  fists  tight  together,  and  whispered  faintly,  as  if  it  had  been 
the  refrain  of  a  sigh,  "  At  last !  " 

Ben  regarded  him  in  surprise,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be 
read  in  the  man's  face,  as  he  asked:  "  May  I  also  ask  your 
mother's  name?  " 

"Yes;  her  name  is  Laura." 

"Is  Laura — "  Jack  sat  silently  a  long  time,  as  if  lost  in 
thought,  when  the  stillness  was  broken  by  Walker. 

"Well,  Jack,  you  began  to  tell  us  something  very  interest 
ing,  and  stopped  rather  queer.  Do  those  names  fit  in  your 
story  ?  ' ' 


FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  What  names  ?  "  asked  Jack. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  man  ?  "  asked  Walker. 

Jack's  eyes  came  back  from  their  far-off  journey,  as  he  con 
tinued  : 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  I  spoke  of  Captain  Wetherell,  and 
this  young  man's  name  is  Wetherell,  and  you  thought  it  queer. 
Yes,  it  is  queer.  Well,  will  you  believe  it,  that  wretch  I  was 
talking  about  was  married  to  that  dashing  creature,  living  like 
a  prince  in  New  Orleans,  and  he  had  brought  the  sweet  woman 
I  loved  there  too,  and  she  was  living  in  a  cottage  not  half  a 
mile  away. 

"  I  lost  no  time,  and  soon  found  out  Agnes  was  the  real  wife, 
and  the  other  was  not.  If  it  had  been  the  other  way,  and  my 
Agnes  been  deceived,  I  would  have  taken  her  with  her  guilt 
less  soul  away  from  the  wretch  who  betrayed  her ;  but,  as  it 
was,  my  case  was  hopeless. 

"I  opened  a  correspondence  with  the  second  wife  —  told 
her  she  had  been  betrayed,  and  I  could  prove  it.  It  was  some 
time  before  I  could  induce  her  to  make  any  response.  Finally, 
when  I  had  almost  despaired,  a  summons  came  to  be  at  her 
house  a"t  a  certain  hour  on  a  day  named.  I  was  ascending  the 
marble  steps,  at  the  appointed  time,  when  the  door  was  opened 
by  the  lady  herself,  who  was  evidently  awaiting  me.  I  was 
shown  into  a  reception  room,  with  gold  and  brown  hangings. 
Across  the  hall  I  could  just  catch  a  glimpse,,  in  the  soft  light,  of 
gold  and  silver  and  crimson.  It  was  regal  paradise,  where  even 
the  delicate-tinted  flowers  under  my  feet  seemed  capable  of 
sending  forth  perfumes  in  their  artistic  perfection.  I  had  never 
seen  such  luxury  before. 

"  The  lady  closed  the  door,  and  asked  at  once : 

"  'Are  you  the  person  who  has  been  annoying  me  with  anony 
mous  letters  ? ' 


2OO  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"I  answered  quite  as  coldly,  *  Yes,  madam,  I  am.' 

"  '  What  your  object  may  be,  I  have  been  unable  to  under 
stand.  You  have  never  threatened,  or  attempted  any  extor 
tions.  You  utterly  ignore  my  silence,  and  persistently  write. 
Your  letters  annoy  me,  and  I  demand  an  explanation.' 

"There  was  a  dangerous  flash  from  her  black  eyes,  and  she 
paced  the  floor  without  looking  toward  me.  I  had  tracked  a 
lion  to  its  den,  and  had  scarcely  the  courage  to  give  the  blow 
that  would  make  it  spring  in  self-defence.  For  one  moment 
I  had  not  the  courage, —  one  moment,  only  one,  in  which  I 
thought  of  my  desolate  fate,  and  all  the  bitterness  of  my  soul 
came  back. 

"  'Madam,  I  have  written  you  nothing  but  the  truth,  for  which 
I  ignore  return.' 

"  '  Sir,  do  you  dare  to  tell  me  to  my  face  I  am  not  the  wife 
of  the  man  whose  name  I  bear,  and  my  children  are  bastards  ? ' 

"  That  livid  face,  those  burning  eyes,  and  that  stately  woman, 
who  stood  looking  fiercely  into  my  face,  as  if  she  could  an 
nihilate  me  —  I  see  them  now.  I  had  never  been  a  bad  man. 
My  life  had  been  a  simple  country  life  —  a  poor  orphan,  brought 
up  here  and  there,  without  home  or  friends.  Parson  White  was 
all  the  father  I  ever  knew,  and  Agnes  was  my  life,  my  all,  and 
I  had  lost  her.  So  you  can  understand  I  quailed  before  the 
appalling  work  I  was  doing.  I  had  not  counted  on  such  a  fury 
as  I  met. 

"My  silence  and  irresolution  exasperated  her.  She  stamped 
her  foot,  and  the  one  word,  '  Answer !  '  made  me  turn  pale 
and  tremble.  She  stood  with  her  fierce  eyes  riveted  on  mine, 
and,  as  a  snake  charms  its  prey,  drew  forth  the  truth  —  drew  it 
from  me.  Ay,  I  stood  there  like  a  tool  at  her  command.  I 
told  her  of  her  husband's  double  marriage  and  my  lost  love  — 
that  Agnes  was  his  wife  and  the  mother  of  two  children,  while 


FREE    PRISONERS.  2OI 

she,  the  beautiful  fiend  before  me,  was  the  mistress  of  the  man 
she  lived  with,  and  her  children  were  bastards. 

"  She  paced  the  floor  with  clinched  hands.  A  deep  shadow 
had  fallen  over  her  handsome  face.  She  was  thinking,  darkly 
thinking,  and  she  took  long,  sweeping  strides  to  keep  pace 
with  her  thoughts.  An  hour  must  have  passed,  when  she  turned 
suddenly  to  me. 

"'You  have  been  wronged,  too.  You  hate  them  both.  I 
will  investigate  this  matter,  and  if  it  is  as  you  say,  may  I  trust 
to  your  aid  for  revenge  ?  ' 

" '  You  can,'  I  answered,  with  all  my  heart. 

"  '  I  believe  you,'  she  gasped,  almost  breathless,  as  she  firmly 
grasped  my  hand.  '  Come  at  this  same  hour  one  week  from 
to-day,  and  we  will  see  what  can  be  done.' 

"  She  opened  the  door,  and  I  went  silently  out  into  the  dark 
night. 

"  I  went  again  in  one  week.  As  I  ascended  the  steps  the  door 
was  opened,  as  on  my  previous  visit,  by  the  lady  herself,  and  I 
was  silently  motioned  into  the  reception  room.  To  my  amaze 
ment,  there  sat  the  Captain. 

"  The  madam  had  examined  the  marriage  register  and  found 
Captain  Richard  Neal  had  married  Agnes  White,  and  that  Cap 
tain  Wetherell's  name  was  Neal  she  was  perfectly  convinced, 
for  all  his  property  was  in  that  name.  His  second  marriage 
was  registered  R.  Wetherell.  There  was  no  mistake.  The 
little  country  girl,  whose  sweet  devotion  had  won  the  Captain, 
he  thought  harmless,  and  he  was  determined  to.  possess  the 
beautiful  woman  who  had  completely  fascinated  him. 

"  She  did  not  hesitate  an  instant.     The  inquisition  began. 
•     "  '  Captain  Wetherell,  look  at  this  young  man.'  , 

"  The  Captain  raised  his  eyes  to  mine,  and  turned  deathly 
pale. 


2O2  .         FREE    PRISONERS. 

"'You  know  him/  she  continued.  'You  married  the  wo 
man  he  loved.  She  has  two  children  bearing  your  name.  You 
married  me,  Captain  Wetherell,  and  I  have  two  children  —  two 
illegitimate  children  —  you  parade  before  the  world  in  this 
princely  home,  where  you  keep  your  mistress.  The  others,  who 
bear  your  name,  and  are  the  heirs  to  your  estate,  are  hidden  in 
an  obscure  cottage.' 

"She  sprang  in  front  of  the  silent,  cowering  man,  and  hissed  : 

"'If  I  had  a  dagger  that  could  cut  but  never  kill,  never 
cease  its  exquisite  torture,  how  I  could  plunge  it  into  your  false 
heart.  Captain  Wetherell,  I  am  from  this  hour  my  own  mis 
tress,  not  yours.  You  are  my  tool.  You  shall  obey  my  slight 
est  command.  Make  over  this  day  your  estate  to  me,  and  leave 
this  country.  Do  you  hear  ?  You  are  a  felon,  if  I  speak  but 
the  word.  You  dare  not  disobey.  I  choose  to  remain  Mrs. 
Wetherell.  The  little  country  girl  need  never  know.  She  will 
never  take  the  pains  to  find  out.  You  had  an  offer  to  go  to 
India.  Go,  and  never  come  back.  If  you  dare  to  oppose  my 
command,  I  will  throw  aside  my  pride,  and  you  shall  meet  what 
you  deserve  —  a  felon's  doom.' 

"  Every  word  came  like  a  curse,  and  the  woman  who  uttered 
them  looked  a  superb  fiend. 

"The  Captain,  with  his  head  drooping  on  his  breast,  rose  to 
leave  the  room.  She  stepped  in  front  of  him.  He  shuddered, 
as  if  she  had  been  a  viper. 

'"I  give  you  forty-eight  hours  to  leave  this  place,'  she  said. 
'  Will  you  go  ?  ' 

"  The  bowed  head  dropped  lower  in  acquiescence,  and  he 
passed  out. 

"  The  woman  approached  me.  '  Sir,'  she  whispered,  hoarsely, 
1  you  will  never  relent ;  never  repent  ?  You  swear  it  ? f 

"I  answered,  scarcely  audible,  'I  swear.' 


FREE    PRISONERS.  2O3 

"Again  the  ashen  lips  parted,  her  dark  eyes  scanned  the 
room  nervously,  as  she  grasped  my  arm : 

"  '  I  married  that  dotard  for  money.  I  hate  him,  but  I  must 
have  his  wealth.  The  other  two  children  are  his  heirs;  mine,' 
she  trembled  like  an  aspen,  '  are  nothing.  You  hate  that  other 
woman.  So  do  I.  She  has  robbed  me.  He  is  an  arrant  cow 
ard  ;  he  will  leave  in  two  days.  You  tell  me  that  woman  spends 
a  great  deal  of  her  time  at  a  neighbor's.  Watch  the  cottage 
closely.  The  first  time  she  is  absent  after  dark,  meet  me  here 
with  a  carriage.  No  matter  when,  I  will  be  ready.  Be  your 
own  driver,  for  no  other  human  being  but  you  and  I  can  eyer 
know  what  is  done.  Drive  to  the  rear  of  the  cottage.  Take 
her  children  and  leave  mine  ;  then  we  will  get  the  property.' 

"I  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  taking  Agnes's  children.  It 
was  horrible.  But  the  still,  small  voice  of  revenge  said,  'Ag 
nes  took  your  heart.'  • 

"  I  answered  promptly  :  '  I  will  do  your  bidding,  madam ;  but 
after  that,  we  part  forever.' 

"  '  It  will  be  best,'  she  answered." 

The  man  ceased  talking.  Presently  he  began  again  in  a  low 
whisper : 

"I  went  like  a  thief,  that  I  was,  in  the  darkness  of  night ; 
lightning  flashed  angrily  from  heaven ;  thunder  rolled  over 
my  head  in  awful  threatening,  but  I  took  Agnes's  children  and 
left  the  bastards  in  their  place.  I  left  the  city  that  night,  and 
wandered  over  the  earth  like  an  evil  spirit  for  rest,  but  there 
was  none  for  me  ;  never  any  more.  Sleeping  or  waking,  I  could 
not  rest.  Finally,  I  went  back  to  confess  my  guilt,  and  restore 
the  children,  for  whom  I  knew  the  mother's  heart  was  break 
ing.  They  were  gone  —  all  gone.  The  cottage  was  for  rent, 
and  strangers  occupied  the  mansion.  What  I  have  endured, 
wandering  this  wide  world  over,  in  search  of  the  woman  I 


2O4  FREE    PRISONERS. 

wronged,  no  human  tongue  could  ever  tell.  Poor,  starv 
ing,  haunted  wretch  that  I  am  —  if  I  could  only  redeem  the 
past." 

His  eyes  rested  upon  the  open  letter  in  Walker's  hand,  and 
on  it  was  written  "Agnes  Neal."  The  man  shrank  back  as 
if  shot,  and  his  face  was  convulsed  with  pain.  He  grasped 
Walker's  arm  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  pointed  to  the 
letter.  His  white  lips  parted,  but  for  an  instant  no  sound 
came.  Finally,  recovering  himself,  he  whispered,  "  Where  did 
you  get  that  ?  ' ' 

"It  is  his,"  said  Walker,  pointing  to  Ben. 

Jack  picked  up  the  envelope,  read  the  post-mark,  arose, 
staggered  off,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

Ben's  attention  had  been  attracted  in  another  direction,  and 
he  had  not  seen  the  strange  pantomime.  He  turned  toward 
Walker,  saying : 

"  That  is  a  strange  specimen  of  humanity.  I  think  his  mind 
is  affected.  He  started  in  to  tell  us  how  he  came  here,  and 
never  mentioned  it  after  all." 

Walker  made  no  reply.  He  had  read  more  in  the  man's  face 
than  Ben,  and  was  strongly  convinced  that  he  was  in  some  way 
connected  with  the  story. 

Poor  Jack  Hunter  had  been  so  long  in  the  prison,  and  had 
never  received  any  message  from  the  outside  world,  that  it  had 
quite  escaped  the  minds  of  others  that  he  had  ever  been  a  part 
of  it.  For  several  years  he  had  been  a  "  trusty,"  never  failing, 
never  wavering  in  his  duty.  The  day  after  the  above  conver 
sation,  he  was  sent  with  a  guard  on  an  errand.  When  they 
were  about  a  mile  away  from  the  prison,  where  there  were 
many  curves  in  the  road,  and  the  hills  were  covered  with 
underbrush,  Jack  suddenly  discovered  the  linch-pin  in  the 
cart  was  missing. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  20$ 

"  I  think  I  know  just  where  we  lost  it,"  he  said.  "  I  thought 
I  heard  something  drop.  I  will  run  back  and  get  it." 

The  guard  waited,  but  Jack  did  not  return.  The  guard 
went  in  search,  but  he  was  not  to  be  found,  and  the  prison 
walls  were  never  to  hold  him  any  more. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

THE  FATAL  SHOT A  YEAR  AND  A  HALF  LATER. 

WHO  is  that  fellow?  "  asked  Bill  Brown  of  Blaize,  the  pro 
prietor  of  the  most  extensive  drinking  and  gambling 
saloon  in  Nevada,  as  Jack  Hunter  hobbled  out  by  the 
aid  of  his  cane. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Blaize.  "We  call  him  Jack. 
He  came  here  over  a  year  ago,  so  doubled  up  with  rheumatism 
he  could  hardly  move.  He  told  me  he  had  been  a  long  time 
in  a  hospital  somewhere.  He  wanted  work,  and  I  pitied  the 
poor  devil,  for  he  was  almost  naked  and  half  starved.  The 
old  darkey  who  used  to  take  care  of  the  saloon  had  just  died,  so  I 
let  him  work  around  for  his  board  and  clothes.  He's  the 
most  reliable  fellow  I  ever  saw,  and  the  willingest  dog  alive. 
I  pay  him  wages  now,  and  he  's  worth  a  dozen  ordinary  sound 
men." 

"He's  a  little  crazy,  I  think,"  said  Bill.  "He's  been 
talking  about  some  mission  he  has  to  perform,  and  says  I  re 
mind  him  of  some  one  he  used  to  know  —  asks  me  every  time 
he  sees  me  if  I  ever  knew  Captain  Wetherell.  It  's  blamed 
queer;  almost  every  day  I  meet  somebody  who  has  known 
somebody  else  that  I  look  like.  I  can't  get  rid  of  this  fellow. 
18 


2O6  FREE    PRISONERS. 

He  wants  me  to  walk  a  little  way  down  the  street  with  him 
this  evening  just  after  dark,  to  show  me  somebody,  and  ask  my 
advice." 

"Well,  go  with  him,"  said  Blaize.  "If  there  is  anything 
you  can  do  for  the  poor  devil,  do  it.  I  will  consider  it  as  a 
favor  to  me.  Come,  take  a  drink." 

Presently  Jack  came  limping  in  a  great  deal  spryer  than  usual. 
Several  people  had  congregated  in  the  saloon  in  the  meantime. 
In  his  usual  quiet  way  he  went  up  to  Bill,  and  reminded  him 
of  the  walk  he  had  asked  him  to  take  an  hour  or  two  before. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  have  a  game  of  cards  with  these  friends 
of  mine,"  answered  Bill;  but  seeing  Jack's  disappointed  face, 
he  turned  to  his  friends  and  said :  "  Gentlemen,  excuse  me  a 
few  minutes,  I  have  to  go  up  street  a  little  ways  with  Jack,  but 
will  be  back  presently." 

"  I  guess  Jack  can  wait,"  said  one,  roughly. 

"  Well,  we  '11  excuse  you,  but  don't  stay  long,"  said  another. 

Bill  and  Jack  walked  silently  along  until  they  approached 
Mrs.  Neal's  cottage,  when  Jack,  as  if  suddenly  awakened  from 
a  reverie,  said  : 

"You  must  go  softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  them." 

"  Disturb  who?     Who  are  you  talking  about?  "  asked  Bill. 

"Why,  the  two  ladies." 

"Are  you  bringing  me  away  out  here  to  see  two  ladies,  you 
old  fool,  as  though  ladies  were  a  curiosity  about  these  diggins." 
Bill  stopped  short,  as  if  to  turn  around  and  go  back. 

"Oh,  sir,  please  come  and  look  in  at  the  window;  just 
one  moment,  and  see  how  happy  they  are,"  pleaded  Jack. 

"  What  do  I  want  to  look  into  people's  windows  for  to  see 
how  happy  they  are?  "  growled  Bill,  sullenly. 

"But  I  want  you  to;  I  want  your  advice,"  insisted  Jack. 
"  I  stole  her  boy  and  girl  from  her  eighteen  years  ago,  and  left 


FREE    PRISONERS.  2QJ 

two  bastards  in  their  place.  For  more  than  a  year  I  have  come 
here  daily,  watching  her  with  that  strange  girl.  They  are  so 
happy  and  contented,  I  have  not  had  the  courage  to  tell  her 
how  it  happened,  although  I  would  give  my  life  to  redeem  the 
past  by  restoring  them  to  her." 

'  <  What  are  you  talking  about,  Jack  ?  I  believe  you  are  crazy, ' ' 
said  Bill,  impatiently. 

"  Crazy  !  I  wish  to  God  I  was.  for  then  this  consuming  re 
morse  would  be  ended.  No,  I  am  worse  than  crazy  —  I'm  a 
villain!" 

They  had  reached  the  cottage,  Jack  had  noiselessly  approached 
a  window,  and  motioned  to  Bill,  who  reluctantly  followed,  and 
looked  in  through  the  half-closed  blinds  where  Jack  indicated. 
He  gave  a  sudden  start,  grasped  Jack's  arm,  and  said,  ex 
citedly  : 

"  What  did  you  bring  me  here  for?  " 

Jack  was  terrified  lest  Mrs.  Neal,  who  sat  sewing,  with  Linda 
reading  by  her  side,  should  hear  the  noise  and  become  alarmed. 
He  took  Bill  by  the  arm  to  lead  him  away,  but  his  mute  en 
treaties  were  of  no  avail.  Bill  stood  persistently  leaning  against 
the  window,  looking  intently  at  the  little  group,  as  if  spell 
bound. 

Finally,  in  terror,  Jack  whispered,  "  They  are  coming  to 
close  the  blinds  ;  you  must  go." 

Bill  permitted  himself  to  be  led  some  distance  from  the  cot 
tage,  when  he  stopped  short,  and  facing  Jack,  demanded  : 

"  Are  you  the  devil  who  broke  that  woman's  heart?  " 

"  I  am,"  whispered  Jack,  hoarsely. 

"You  ought  to  be  killed,"  said  Bill,  fiercely  clinching  his 
arm. 

"  Will  you  be  merciful  enough  to  kill  me?  "  asked  Jack,  with 
the  most  pitiful  appeal. 


2O8  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Bill  regarded  him  an  instant  with  amazement,  then,  letting 
go  his  hold,  said  contemptuously,  "It  is  greater  punishment  to 
let  you  live." 

"Ay,  my  life  is  hell,"  said  Jack,  desperately.  "But  what 
do  you  know  of  her  ?  " 

"What  do  I  know  of  her?"  asked  Bill,  thoughtfully.  "I 
know  the  whole  story  from  her  own  lips.  I  was  the  boy  who 
was  left  in  the  place  of  her  lost  one." 

"You  !  "  exclaimed  Jack,  staggering,  as  if  from  a  blow,  and 
he  would  have  fallen  had  not  Bill  caught  him.  "  Then  you  are 
that  woman' s  child,  and  the  boy  in  prison  is  Agnes  Neal's 
son." 

"What  boy  in  prison,  Jack?"  It  was  Bill's  turn  to  be 
astonished. 

"  Ben  Wetherell,"  was  the  answer. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  him  ?  "  asked  Bill,  nervously. 

"  I  was  in  prison,  too.     I  saw  him  there." 

"How  does  the  poor  fellow  bear  it?"  asked  Bill,  evincing 
great  sympathy. 

"Like  a  man,"  answered  Jack. 

"  Poor  fellow !"  said  Bill,  more  to  himself  than  to  Jack. 

They  were  retracing  their  steps  in  silence,  as  they  had  come. 
Bill,  with  his  slight,  graceful  figure,  taking  long,  sweeping 
strides,  while  the  stooped  cripple  by  his  side  hobbled  along, 
scarcely  able  to  keep  up  with  his  young  companion.  Bill  soon 
discovered  the  discomfort  of  his  escort,  and  regarding  him 
attentively,  slackened  his  pace,  as  he  said : 

"  Jack,  if  you  stole  me,  you  must  know  who  I  am,  and  where 
I  belong.  It  would  be  some  satisfaction  to  a  fellow  to  know." 

"All  I  could  tell  you  would  be  very  unsatisfactory,"  answered 
Jack,  hesitatingly.  "But  you  misunderstood  me.  I  did  not 
steal  you.  It  was  Agnes  Neal's  children  I  took,  and  left  you 


FREE    PRISONERS.  2CX) 

and  your  sister  in  their  place.     It  was  all  done  at  your  mother's 
command." 

"At  my  mother's  command?"  asked  Bill,  in  amazement. 
"  Did  my  mother  give  her  children  about  in  that  style  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  your  mother  had  been  betrayed.  Your  father 
was  Mrs.  Neal's  husband,  but  under  the  name  of  Wetherell  mar 
ried  your  mother." 

"Under  the  name  of  Wetherell?"  asked  Bill,  in  breathless 
haste. 

"Yes,  your  father  always  went  by  that  name,  although  his 
real  name  was  Richard  Neal.  Your  mother  married  him  for 
his  wealth,  and  when  she  discovered  how  he  had  wronged  her, 
and  she  had  no  claim  or  title  to  his  estate,  she  conceived  the 
hellish  plot  of  taking  Agnes  Neal's  children,  who  were  his  heirs, 
and  leaving  her  illegitimate  ones  in  their  place.  It  was  a  hor 
rible  thing  to  do,  but  the  woman  hated  the  man  so  intensely  for 
his  perfidy,  that  I  believe  her  hatred  extended  to  the  children 
she  had  borne  him.  I  loved  Agnes  Neal,  and  she  had  preferred 
another.  So  I  became  your  mother's  accomplice,  to  avenge  my 
own  supposed  wrong  as  well  as  her  real  one." 

"Where  is  that  Wetherell  now,  my  most  honorable  father?" 
asked  Bill,  in  bitter  irony. 

"  Captain  Wetherell  is  dead,"  answered  Jack. 

"What  !  the  old  Captain,  who  was.  killed  not  far  from  here 
in  a  mine  a  year  and  a  half  ago.  Ben's  father  —  was  he  my 
father,  too  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  he  was  your  father  and  Ben's." 

"  That  accounts  for  our  wonderful  resemblance,"  said  Bill. 

"Yes,  you  both  look  like  your  father.  That's  how  I 
came  to  be  around  so  much  where  you  were.  I  thought  I 
could  not  be  mistaken.  I  knew  you  by  your  resemblance  to 
Ben." 

18*  O 


2IO  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"Then  the  haughty  Mrs.  Wetherell,  down  in  Sacramento,  is 
my  mother,  is  she?  "  asked  Bill. 

"Mrs.  Wetherell  in  Sacramento.  Where  in  Sacramento ?" 
asked  Jack,  nervously. 

"I  don't  exactly  know  —  she  went  down  there  with  a  Mr. 
Warren.  There  was  some  talk  about  his  marrying  Ben's  sister, 
but  I  think  there  is  more  probability  of  his  marrying  the  old 
lady,  for  the  sister  lives  here." 

"Where  does  she  live?  "  asked  Jack,  hurriedly. 

"  That  was  she  we  saw  this  evening  in  the  cottage  with  Mrs. 
Neal." 

"That !  Is  it  possible?  Agnes'  own  child  happy  with  her 
mother?  The  fates  are  kinder  than  God's  creatures." 

"  Yes,  so  it  seems,"  added  Bill,  thoughtfully.  "  I  took  a  deep 
interest  in  young  Wetherell 's  case,  knew  all  the  parties  con 
nected  with  it  by  sight,  and  have  kept  track  of  them  pretty 
well  ever  since.  I  see  Miss  Wetherell  on  the  street  quite  often 
with  Ben's  wife,  but  I  have  never  seen  Mrs.  Neal  here  before. 
You  can  readily  imagine  my  surprise  to  find  you  were  taking 
me  to  see  the  good  woman  who  reared  me  until  I  was  sixteen 
years  old.  Then  I  became  restless  and  started  westward.  I 
wrote  her  regularly  for  several  years,  until  her  mother  died  and 
left  her  all  alone  in  the  world,  and  she  wanted  to  join  me  out 
here.  Then  I  ceased  ,all  correspondence,  hoping  she  would 
think  me  dead.  I  had  fallen  into  wild  company,  and  led  a 
reckless  life,  which  would  have  been  a  new  source  of  sorrow  to 
her.  But  with  all,  Jack,  I  wish  I  was  worthy  to  go  to  her,  for 
I  love  her  devotedly." 

They  had  reached  the  saloon  door.  Bill's  friends  at  once 
motioned  for  him  to  join  them.  He  bade  Jack  good-night. 
Telling  him  they  would  have  a  long  talk  to-morrow,  he  joined 
his  reckless  companions.  Jack,  cuddled  up  in  an  easy  chair, 


FREE    PRISONERS.  211 

in  one  corner  of  the  saloon,  was  so  busy  with  his  own  wild 
thoughts,  he  heard  nothing,  although  the  talking  grew  louder 
and  more  desperate  after  every  drink,  and  the  stakes  ran  higher 
and  higher. 

Bill  Brown  was  winning  at  every  hand.  It  was  a  desperate 
stake.  The  last  dollar  of  his  antagonist  was  on  the  table,  and 
Bill  won. 

The  man,  in  despairing  frenzy,  grabbed  the  money,  and  hissed 
in  Bill's  ear,  "  It  was  foul !  You  're  a  thief!  " 

"  You  're  a  liar  !  "  thundered  Bill. 

The  discharge  of  a  pistol  rang  through  the  saloon.  A  single 
shot,  and  every  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  as  Bill  Brown  fell  to 
the  floor  in  a  pool  of  blood.  Jack  was  the  first  by  his  side. 

Bill  raised  his  eyes  to  the  thin,  searching  face  before  him,  and 
with  effort  said  :  "We  won't  have  that  'long  talk  to-morrow,' 
Jack.  It 's  all  over  with  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  boy.  It 's  not  so  bad  as  you  think,"  answered 
Jack,  encouragingly. 

A  surgeon  was  found,  who  carefully  dressed  the  wound,  and 
had  him  removed  to  comfortable  quarters.  He  pronounced 
his  patient  in  a  dangerous  condition,  but  not  necessarily  fatal. 

When  Bill  was  comfortably  in  his  own  room,  he  whispered 
to  Jack  : 

"  I  would  like  to  see  that  good  woman  once  more.  Do 
you  think  she  would  come  to  me  if  you  would  ask  her?  " 

"Why,  of  course  she  would,"  answered  Jack,  promptly, 
thinking  only  of  the  kind,  thoughtful  Agnes  of  many  years 
ago.  "  I  '11  go  at  once  and  fetch  her,"  and  he  limped  off  with 
wonderful  alacrity. 


212  FREE    PRISONERS. 

CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

MRS.   NEAL   FINDS   HER   DAUGHTER. 

IT  was  midnight.  The  cottage  was  dark  ;  the  occupants  all 
slept.  The  repeated  knocking  at  the  door  awakened  Mrs. 

Neal,  and  to  her  inquiry,  "Who  is  there?"  Jack  Hunter, 
trembling  in  every  limb,  answered  :  "A  person  on  urgent  bus 
iness.  ' ' 

"What,  business  can  you  possibly  have  with  me  that  should 
bring  you  at  such  a  late  hour?"  asked  Mrs.  Neal,  hurriedly 
dressing 

"  Madam,  your  son  has  met  with  an  accident." 

"  My  son?  "  asked  Mrs.  Neal,  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  madam,  your  son." 

"  You  mean  my  adopted  son,  William  Neal?  " 

Jack  had  only  known  him  as  Bill  Brown,  but  at  once  under 
stood  his  motive  in  having  changed  his  name.  He  answered 
promptly,  "Yes,  madam,  William  Neal." 

' '  Where,  and  how  did  it  happen  ?  ' '  asked  Mrs.  Neal,  anx 
iously,  as  she  opened  the  door. 

Jack  had  watched  her  face  so  often,  it  was  perfectly  familiar 
to-  him  ;  but  her  voice  —  that  same  sweet,  sympathetic  voice,  he 
had  not  heard  for  years — awakened  every  memory  of  the  bitter 
past.  He  limped  into  the  room,  and  fell  heavily  into  a  chair. 

"You  are  tired,  poor  man.  You  came  too  rapidly.  Rest  a 
moment,  then  you  can  tell  me  better." 

"  He  was  shot  by  accident,  madam,"  stammered  Jack,  as  if 
he  was  suffocating.  Suddenly,  forgetting  his  infirmities,  he  rose 
to  his  feet,  and  looking  eagerly  into  Mrs.  Neal's  face,  asked, 
abruptly,  "  Do  you  know  me  ?  " 


FREE    PRISONERS.  21$ 

"No,"  she  answered,  quietly. 

"  Is  there  nothing  about  me  you  have  ever  seen  before?  " 

Mrs.  Neal  scrutinized  him  earnestly,  and  answered  deliber 
ately,  "Nothing  that  I  recognize." 

"  Great  God,  Agnes,  have  I  gone  from  your  memory 
entirely?  " 

"  Who  are  you,  that  you  call  me  Agnes?  " 

"  Who  am  I  ?  You  may  well  ask,"  cried  the  poor,  wretched 
mortal.  "  I  am  the  man  who  stole  your  children." 

"You  —  you  —  and  you  dare  to  come  and  tell  me?"     4 

"Oh,  Agnes,  will  you  not  forgive  me?"  and  Jack  Hunter 
knelt  at  her  feet. 

"  No,  never  !  "  cried  she,  fiercely. 

"Oh,  Agnes,  if  the  doors  of  the  past  could  be  opened, 
and  you  could  see  the  path  I  have  trodden  step  by  step,  the 
burning  hell  I  have  lived  in  year  after  year,  searching  this 
wide  world  over  for  you,  you  could  forgive  me.  The  letter  I 
wrote  and  left  on  your  chamber-floor  in  the  cottage  in  New 
Orleans,  the  night  I  took  your  children  and  left  hers,  explained 
my  motive.  I  went  away  that  night,  but  I  soon  came  back, 
the  victim  of  remorse,  to  confess  my  crime,  to  restore  your 
children,  but  you  had  gone,  and  she  had  gone." 

"  She  —  who  is  she?" 

"The  illegal  wife  of  Captain  Wetherell.  In  my  bitterness 
toward  you,  I  lied  in  that  note.  You  were  his  legal  wife.  His 
real  name  was  Richard  Neal,  and  the  dashing  beauty  was  his 
mistress.  You  each  had  two  children,  a  son  and  a  daughter ; 
and  that  woman,  to  gain  the  Captain's  property,  induced  me  to 
steal  your  children  and  leave  hers,  for  yours  were  the  heirs  to 
his  estate." 

"Then  that  woman  has  had  my  children  all  these  years?" 
whispered  the  excited  mother,  hoarsely.  Her  very  breathing 


214  FREE    PRISONERS. 

was  suspended,  as  if  the  next  respiration  depended  upon  the 
answer. 

"Yes,"  whispered  Jack,  in  terror,  as  if  he  thought  the  word 
would  kill  her. 

"Linda  —  my  child  — my  child  —  at  last !  "  cried  the  over 
joyed  mother,  and  sank  senseless  to  the  floor. 

Linda  ran  from  her  room  at  the  piercing  call,  to  find  Mrs. 
Neal  senseless  upon  the  floor  and  Jack  Hunter  bending  over 
her. 

"What  have  you  done  to  her?"  she  demanded,  wildly. 
"Oh,  Mother  Neal,  are  you  forever  to  be  persecuted?  Wake 
•up,  my  darling,  angel  mother.  There,  that  does  her  good," 
she  said,  as  Jack  bathed  her  face  with  cold  water. 

Mrs.  Neal  opened  her  eyes,  and,  seeing  Jack  bending  over 
her,  closed  them  again  quickly.  Shuddering,  she  turned  to 
Linda,  and  said : 

"Send  him  away,  Linda;  send  him  away.  The  very  sight 
of  him  is  horrible." 

"  Horrible  !  "  cried  poor  Jack,  rocking  his  body  to  and  fro, 
weeping  like  a  child.  "  Yes,  horrible  !  I  should  be  revolting 
to  the  sight  of  every  human  creature,  and  no  one  has  a  better 
right  to  tell  me  so  than  you." 

Mrs.  Neal  seemed  suddenly  to  have  awakened  to  a  full  reali 
zation  of  what  had  happened.  Going  to  the  cowering,  weep 
ing  creature,  with  all  the  mildness  of  her  old  self,  she  said, 
earnestly : 

"Jack  Hunter,  do  you  swear  before  God  you  have  spoken 
the  truth  this  night?" 

Jack  raised  his  two  hands  heavenward,  and  with  great  tears 
streaming  from  his  uplifted  eyes,  that  were  wonderfully  large 
and  luminous  in  his  emaciated  face,  said,  solemnly : 

"Agnes  Neal,  before  God,  I  do  most  solemnly  swear.    Every 


FREE    PRISONERS.  215 

word  I  have  spoken  this  night  was  the  truth,  the  whole  truth, 
and  nothing  but  the  truth.  That  is  the  daughter  I  stole  from 
you,"  pointing  toward  Linda,  "and  Ben  Wetherell,  in  San 
Quentin,  is  your  son." 

Linda  stood  in  amazement,  regarding  first  one,  then  the 
other. 

"At  last,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Neal,  "I  live  again.  Linda, 
darling,  you  are  my  own,  my  long  lost  child." 

"  Oh,  Mother  Neal,  what  happiness  !  "  and  Linda  was  folded 
to  her  heart;  "and  Ben,  what  joyful  news  for  him.  How  has 
it  all  come  about,  that  we  at  last  have  a  tender,  loving  mother  ? 
We  could  not  love  that  woman,  she  was  so  hard  and  cold.  I 
often  asked  myself,  if  it  was  possible  for  a  mother  to  hate  her 
own  children  as  she  evidently  did  us.  But  how  strange  that 
she  should  bring  us  together,  to  love  one  another,  before  we 
knew  what  a  claim  we  had  upon  each  other's  affections." 

They  quite  forgot  Jack  in  their  mutual  happiness,  and  he  in 
turn  had  forgotten  the  errand  that  brought  him  there,  and  was 
quietly  moving  toward  the  door,  when  Linda  exclaimed : 

"  But  this  good  man,  who  has  brought  us  so  much  happiness, 
surely  is  not  going  without  a  word  of  thanks  ?  " 

Jack  turned  and  looked  at  Linda,  with  his  great  eyes  beam 
ing  with  gratitude.  He  was  so  unaccustomed  to  consideration, 
it  seemed  like  the  dawning  of  a  new  life. 

Her  words  awakened  a  cord  of  sympathy  in  Mrs.  Neal's 
heart.  She  went  to  Jack,  took  his  thin,  bony  hand  in  hers, 
and  with  deep  feeling  said  : 

"The  agony  I  have  suffered,  through  you,  no  words  could 
adequately  portray ;  but  one  need  only  look  at  you^  to  know 
how  you  have  expiated  your  wrong.  I  forgive  you. ' ' 

"I  don't  deserve  it,  Agnes.  I  had  no  right  to  expect  it," 
said  poor  Jack,  quite  overcome ;  "  you  are  too  good  to  me." 


2l6  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"But  wait,"  said  Mrs.  Neal,,  "I  must  go  with  you  to  poor 
William,  and  you  must  tell  me  all  about  him  on  the  way." 

Mrs.  Neal  hurriedly  explained  that  an  accident  had  befallen 
her  adopted  son,  for  whom  she  had  so  long  been  searching  in 
vain,  and  Jack  had  come  to  conduct  her  to  him. 

The  unusual  noise  at  that  hour  of  the  night  awakened  Lucy, 
who  made  her  appearance,  looking  exceedingly  sleepy,  but  she 
was  suddenly  thoroughly  awakened  by  Linda  springing  toward 
her  with  the  incomprehensible  announcement : 

"  The  world  has  turned  upside  down  and  inside  out  in  the 
short  space  of  an  hour.  Lucy,  you  are  Mrs.  Neal's  daughter-in- 
law  instead  of  Mrs.  Wetherell's,  and  your  name  is  not  Weth- 
erellatall." 

Lucy  rubbed  her  eyes,  as  if  upon  a  clear  vision  depended  a 
clear  comprehension  of  such  an  enigmatical  statement. 

Mrs.  Neal  left  them,  with  a  request  that  they  should  retire 
and  talk  everything  over  in  the  morning.  So  it  came  to  pass 
that  Jack  Hunter  escorted  the  old  sweetheart  of  his  boyish  days 
to  the  bedside  of  Richard  Wetherell's  illegitimate  son. 

As  the  physician  said  nothing  but  the  best  of  care  could  save 
him,  and  even  then  there  was  little  hope  of  his  life  being 
spared,  Mrs.  Neal  had  Bill  Brown,  who  shall  henceforth  be 
known  as  William  Neal  —  the  name  he  had  borne  since  the  night 
he  had  been  left  in  the  cottage  at  New  Orleans  —  removed  to 
her  own  house,  where  he  could  be  under  her  constant  care. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  2I/ 

CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

VENGEANCE. 

AFTER  William  Neal  was  removed  to  the  cottage,  Jack 
Hunter  grew  restless  and  absent-minded.  A  cough  that 
had  been  annoying  him  for  a  long  time,  became  alarming. 
He  grew  daily  more  like  a  spectre  than  a  man.  Still,  he  mechan 
ically  performed  his  duties,  until  duty  seemed  to  become  insup 
portable.  He  asked  for  a  leave  of  absence  for  a  few  weeks, 
under  the  pretence  of  ill  health,  and  it  was  at  once  granted. 
Without  saying  a  word  to  any  one  of  his  intentions,  he  took  the 
midnight  stage  for  Sacramento.  There  was  a  strange  light  in 
his  large,  searching  eyes,  that  was  attributed  to  the  ravishings 
of  consumption  ;  but  the  approach  of  the  end  came  with  a  new 
light  in  Jack's  soul  —  that  thirsting  soul  panting  for  revenge, 
and  seeing  it,  at  last,  within  its  grasp. 

On  his  arrival,  he  soon  ascertained  the  residence  of  Major 
Warren.  He  took  his  post  every  evening  among  the  shrubbery 
in  the  garden,  where  he  could  readily  see  all  who  came  and  went, 
and  sometimes  catch  glimpses  of  the  interior  of  the  house. 
Night  after  night,  for  two  weeks,  he  had  watched,  until  every 
light  in  the  house  was  extinguished,  excepting  one,  that  evi 
dently  burned  all  night,  and  often  in  the  still  hours  a  shadow 
passed  between  it  and  the  barred  window.  It  was  the  shadow 
of  a  woman. 

Jack's  curiosity  was  greatly  excited  over  that  lonely  watcher, 
all  the  more  because  he  could  never  see  anything  distinctly  be 
hind  the  thick  vines,  yet  the  blind  seemed  never  down.  A 
young  lady  came  sometimes  and  walked  in  the  garden  —  a  tall, 
slight,  graceful  girl.  Jack  knew  it  was  the  discarded  daughter 
19 


218  FREE    PRISONERS. 

of  Mrs.  Wetherell,  and  mentally  asked,  what  the  young  girl  had 
often  asked  herself:  " Your  mother,  where  is  she?" 

The  still  night  gave  back  no  answer — "The  mills  of  the 
gods"  grind  noiselessly. 

The  next  afternoon  Jack  came  strolling  lazily  along  and 
engaged  the  gardener  in  conversation,  carefully  leading  him 
to  talk  of  the  family  with  whom  he  lived.  The  man  was  not 
inclined  to  be  communicative,  until  after  Jack  had  rendered 
him  a  slight  service.  Then  he  thanked  him,  and  added : 

"They  do  say  'the  greather  the  haste  the  liss  spade/  and 
I  'm  after  doin'  iverything  wrong  to-day,  becase  I  'm  in  sich  a 
divil  o'  a  hurry.  Miss  Alice  is  to  be  married  to-morrow,  and 
there  's  a  hape  to  be  done." 

"  Who  is  Miss  Alice?  "  asked  Jack,  carelessly. 

"Sure,  she's  the  Major's  darter."  The  gardener  stuck  his 
spade  deep  in  the  ground,  and  turning  to  Jack,  said,  stupidly, 
as  if  the  idea  had  just  occurred  to  him:  "Will,  no,  she  beant 
the  Major's  darter,  aither.  They  do  say,  as  how  he  dun  know 
whose  darter  she  be ;  and  I  belave  it,  for  he  niver  tould  me  she 
was  his  darter.  Sure  the  Major  is  a  little  quare  entirely,  and 
do  say  quare  things.  He  cum  out  here  one  day,  whin  I  was  a 
worken,  and  says  he  to  me,  says  he,  'Mike.'  Says  I  to  him, 
says  I,  '  Sur  !  '  Says  he  to  me,  says  he,  '  Mike,  why  don't  yez 
be  after  gittin'  married  ? '  Says  I  to  him,  says  I,  '  What  fur  ?  ' 
Says  he  to  me,  says  he,  '  It 's  a  dacent  thing  to  be  doin'.'  Says 
I  to  him,  says  I,  '  Major,  if  it 's  a  dacent  thing  entirely,  why 
don't  yez  be  after  marryin'  yerself,'  says  I,  '  fur  ye' re  hale  and 
hearty,  and  younger  than  hapes  o'  the  spry  dogs  around,'  says  I. 
Will,  now,  will  ye  blave  it?  He  flew  in  a  rage,  and  says,  says 
he,  'Mike,  ye're  an  impertant  dog,'  says  he.  Says  I  to  him, 
says  I,  '  Axin'  yer  honor's  pardon,  it  was  yerself  that  first 
talked  o 'marryin' ;  and  they  do  say,  what 's  sauce  for  the  goose 


FREE    PRISONERS.  2ig 

is  sauce  for  the  gander.  Faith,  I'm  a  goose  entirely.'  'I 
belave  ye're  right,'  says  he.  '  I  did  begin  it,'  says  he,  '  but  it 's 
a  subject  I  don't  care  to  be  talkin'  about,'  says  he,  and  divil  a 
word  could  I  git  out  o  'im  after  that.  Says  I  to  myself,  says  I, 
'  The  Major  has  had  it  rough,'  says  I ;  '  and  niver  a  word  did  I 
say  from  that  day  to  this;  and  there  's  Mag  now,  begorra  I  can't 
worry  a  word  out  o'  her.  There  's  something  mysterious  some 
where,"  and  Mike  gave  Jack  a  knowing  look,  then  silently  went 
on  with  his  work. 

Jack  bade  him  good  afternoon,  and  went  on  his  way,  think 
ing  of  the  barred  window,  with  the  light  in  it  every  night,  and 
wondering  who  the  human  being  was  who  occupied  that  cham 
ber,  and  peered  out  so  eagerly  behind  the  vines;  Mag,  who 
could  not  be  worried  into  telling  anything,  and  what  Mike's 
significant  assurance  of  mystery  was. 

Twilight  found  Jack  at  his  post  in  the  shrubbery;  the  grace 
ful  form  of  Alice  gliding  to  and  fro  on  the  veranda,  and  the 
eager  eyes  behind  the  vines  at  the  barred  window.  That  in 
distinct  figure  at  its  post  every  evening  acted  like  a  magnet  upon 
Jack,  His  eyes  scarcely  left  it,  even  to  watch  Alice's  sweeping, 
graceful  figure  as  it  came  and  went. 

Familiar  footsteps  were  heard  upon  the  walk,  and  the  young 
girl  hastened  to  meet  her  lover.  Still,  Jack  watched  those  strain 
ing  eyes  at  the  barred  window.  If  he  could  only  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  face.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  between  the  thick 
vines  but  two  eyes — such  strange,  wild  eyes,  they  could  scarcely 
belong  to  a  human  being. 

The  lights  came  streaming  from  the  lower  windows.  Soft 
strains  of  music  filled  the  air,  then  two  voices,  fresh  and 
musical,  blended  in  sweetest  harmony.  Jack  sat  entranced,  his 
eyes  never  leaving  the  mysterious  window,  that  was  dark,  for 
the  first  time  after  twilight.  But  his  thoughts  were  of  those 


22O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

voices  that  filled  the  night  with  music  —  that  woman's  daughter, 
with  her  lover,  and  the  morrow,  when  she  would  be  his  wife. 
He  asked  himself,  "If  I  should  rend  the  veil,  and  tell  her 
birth,  would  he  love  her  then,  or  would  their  happiness  be 
dead?  Happiness  and  contentment,"  murmured  the  shivering 
skeleton  of  unrest,  "  they  are  the  only  fragments  left  us  of 
the  wreck  of  Paradise,  and  rare  as  they  are  priceless. ' ' 

At  six  o'clock,  as  usual,  the  door  of  Mrs.  Wetherell's  room, 
or  rather  Mrs.  Warren's,  was  opened,  and  a  dark  figure  entered 
with  a  tray  of  dinner.  It  was  the  nurse,  who  had  for  a  year 
and  a  half  waited  upon  the  lonely  inmate  of  that  chamber,  and 
no  other  human  being  had  crossed  the  threshold.  The  room 
had,  originally,  a  small  hall  connecting  it  with  a  larger  one, 
but  it  had  been  boarded  up  and  a  private  entrance  made  —  so 
adroitly,  that  the  house  might  be  full  of  inmates  and  not  one 
suspect  there  was  such  a  tomb  there. 

The  great  masculine  creature  who  waited  upon  Mrs.  Weth- 
erell  seldom  ever  spoke  —  she  obeyed  orders  and  requests,  but 
never  volunteered  a  word.  That  night  she  seemed  more  affable 
than  usual.  As  she  lighted  the  lamp,  she  regarded  Mrs.  Weth- 
erell  with  a  strange,  empty  smile,  that  remained  on  the  counte 
nance  long  after  the  mind  had  ceased  smiling.  That  slight 
indication  of  amiability  encouraged  Mrs.  Wetherell  wonder 
fully.  It  was  an  event,  where  there  had  not  been  a  smile  for  a 
year  and  a  half.  She  asked  : 

"  Mag,  what  is  the  meaning  of  those  three  taps  of  the  bell  at 
intervals  of  three,  at  the  convent,  morning,  noon,  and  night  ? 
I  hear  them  so  regularly,  and  they  sound  so  free  and  clear,  they 
have  become  quite  like  friends  to  me." 

Other  nights  Mag  would  have  arranged  the  tray,  let  her 
lower  jaw  drop  an  inch,  as  if  to  speak,  but  make  no  further  in 
dication  of  sociability,  and  pass  out.  To-night  was  Christmas 


FREE    PRISONERS.  221 

eve,  and  her  heart,  or  the  tough  substance  that  served  in  that 
capacity  in  her  bony  frame,  was  softened,  and  she  answered  in 
a  rough,  discordant  voice  : 

"Thim  bells?  why.  thirris  the  Angelis." 

"  What  is  the  Angelis?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wetherell. 

"  Why,  all  thim  as  hares  it  drops  on  their  knase,  and  says  three 
Hail  Marys." 

"  And  what  are  Hail  Marys?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wetherell,  anxious 
to  prolong  the  conversation. 

"  Lord  luv  ye,  but  ye' re  stupid,"  burst  out  Mag,  impatiently. 
"  Jist  as  he  said  —  her  head  is  gone  entirely,  all  gone.  Dun 
know  what  a  Hail  Mary  is,  and  he  tould  me  she  was  a  gude 
Catholic.  It 's  thankful  I  am,  entirely,  my  head  was  niver  turned 
upside  down  wi'  book  larnin'," 

The  door  closed  after  her,  and  Mrs.  Wetherell  sank  back  in 
her  chair  tired,  so  tired.  Never  could  she  get  any  satisfac 
tion  out  of  that  woman,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  would  forget 
the  English  language,  if  she  did  not  persist 

"Three  Hail  Marys,"  she  said,  aloud.  "How  strange. 
For  a  year  and  a  half  I  have  heard  those  bells  calling  to  prayer 
several  times  a  day,  and  it  never  once  occurred  to  me  to  pray. 
Why  should  I  ?  What  have  I  to  pray  for  ?  My  health  ?  Surely 
that  is  no  blessing,  for  death  were  preferable  to  this  living  tomb 
—  but  I  will  not  die.  Mag  was  a  little  better  to-night.  For  a 
whole  year  she  never  spoke  at  all.  Lately  she  is  relenting.  I 
will  work  upon  her  feelings,  and  surely  I  can  get  out  of  this 
wretched  prison." 

Mrs.  Wetherell  ate  sparingly,  and  set  the  tray  to  one  side. 
She  went  to  a  mirror  and  regarded  herself  attentively. 

"This  year  and  a  half  has  not  altered  me  much  —  ever  so 
little  older.  How  white  my  hair  is  getting,  but  it  brings  out 
my  black  eyes,  and  makes  my  complexion  clearer.  Thinner, 
19* 


222  FREE    PRISONERS. 

yes,  much  thinner ;  pale,  rather  too  pale,  but  erect ;  and  alto 
gether  I  am  a  handsome  middle-aged  woman.  There  is  a  deal 
of  satisfaction  in  that,  for  I  think  this  Christmas  Major  War 
ren  will  surely  come,  and  I  will  use  all  the  eloquence  of  looks 
and  words  I  used  to  command  so  well." 

She  sat  rocking  and  waiting,  as  she  had  waited  so  often,  but 
no  one  came  'save  Mag,  with  her  heavy  tread,  to  remove  the 
tray. 

"  Mag,  please  ask  Major  Warren  to  come  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Wetherell,  pleadingly. 

"It's  no  use,  ma'am,"  answered  Mag,  shaking  her  head. 
"  This  is  Christmas  ave,  and  Miss  Alice  do  be  gettin'  married 
to-morrow  avenin'  to  the  rich  banker,  and  there  '11  be  great 
goins  on  altogither,"  and  as  Mag  passed  out  her  lower  jaw  drop 
ped  to  express  the  reverse  of  what  it  indicated — that  her  mouth 
was  closed. 

"  Miss  Alice  to  be  married  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Wetherell, 
who  had  a  habit  of  talking  aloud  to  herself,  as  if  to  hear  a 
human  voice,  even  if  it  was  her  own.  "That  sweet,  pretty  girl 
I  have  seen  through  the  vines,  Miss  Alice,  his  adopted  daughter. 
Old  stupid,  to  adopt  a  daughter.  I  tried  that.  I  wonder  where 
my  daughter  is  ?  My  daughter  —  it  seems  like  a  dream  that  I 
ever  had  one." 

The  light  was  turned  very  low,  and  she  sat  softly  rocking, 
with  her  arms  crossed  over  her  chest,  thinking,  thinking, 
ever  thinking ;  and  her  face  changed  continually  under  the  vary 
ing  brain  flashes.  Soft  strains  of  music  came  from  below.  It 
was  the  voice  of  her  long  lost  daughter  blended  with  that  of 
her  lover  —  that  long  lost  daughter  under  the  same  roof  with 
her,  but  lost  to  her  forever.  The  music  died  away  and  night 
was  still  again. 

Jack  shivered.     It  was  damp  and  chilly.     He  was  feeling 


FREE    PRISONERS.  223 

worse  than  usual,  and  was  just  going  to  leave  his  hiding-place, 
when  he  heard  voices  approaching.  One  he  recognized  as 
Mike,  the  gardener,  the  other  was  a  woman.  They  came  near 
his  place  of  concealment  and  stopped,  when  Mike  said : 

"  Mag,  ye're  too  hard  on  a  fellow  intirely.  A  whole  yare  and 
a  half  ago,  says  ye  to  me,  says  ye,  '  Mike,  if  ye  '11  only  con- 
sint  to  me  nussin'  that  woman,  and  yez  be  gardner  yersilf,  and 
lay  up  yer  arnens  a  yare,  I  '11  marry  ye,  says  ye.'  Now,  it 's  a 
yare  and  a  half,  and  ye  says,  says  ye,  '  Mike,  it 's  well  we  're 
doin' ;  we  '11  wait  a  little  longer.'  It 's  nussin'  a  sick  woman 
yez  be ;  but  nobody  iver  sane  'er  or  heard  o  'er  but  yersilf,  and 
divil  a  whimper  will  yez  tell  a  fellow." 

"  Mike,  it 's  will  paid  I  am  for-holdin'  me  tongue." 

"  Mag,  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  ye,  but,  by  Saint  Patrick, 
I  'm  after  thinkin'  it 's  fur  sumthing  ilse  ye  're  paid." 

"Mike,  what  the  divil  do  ye  mane?"  burst  out  Mag,  in  a 
rage. 

"  Be  aisy,  Mag  ;  be  aisy,  now.  Sure,  it 's  a  bouncin1,  foine 
lass  ye  are  now,  Mag;  and  begorra,  Mag,  I  've  me  eye  on  the 
foine  Major,  he  pays  ye  so  divilish  well." 

Mag  drew  her  great,  ungainly,  bony  figure  more  erect,  with 
an  air  of  conscious  pride,  and  it  was  well  for  Mike  that  he 
could  not  see  the  flash  of  her  cold  gray  eyes. 

"  Mike,  it 's  a  fool  ye  are.  Do  ye  think  I  've  lived  these  five 
and  thirty  years  to  be  givin'  meself  to  the  loike  o'  the  Major?  " 

Mike  put  his  arm  about  her  cautiously,  as  he  said :  "  No, 
darlant,  no ;  not  whin  I  'm  around.  But  begorra,  Mag,  it 's  div 
ilish  quare,  so  it  is." 

"Do  ye  sae  yon  window?"  asked  Mag,  suddenly,  pointing 
to  the  mysterious  window. 

Jack's  eyes  and  ears  were  all  attention. 

"Begorra,  I  do,"  answered  Mike,  stupidly. 


224  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"Whist,  thin.  If  iver  yez  brathe  a  word,  I'll  niver  marry 
yez  at  all.  Do  yez  moind  that,  now?  " 

"  May  the  divil  burn  me  if  iver  I  do,  Mag,  ye  swate  cra- 
thur,  ye." 

"Will,  thin,  Mike,  in  that  room  is  a  woman.  Will  yez  be- 
lave  it,  she  's  bin  there  a  year  and  a  half,  and  niver  been  out  o' 
the  door  ?  ' ' 

"  The  divil !  "  exclaimed  Mike. 

"  Yes,  and  it 's  there  she  '11  stay ;  for  the  divil  himsilf  could  n't 
hate  a  craythur  like  the  Major  do  hate  her.  It 's  mad  he  says 
she  is;  but,  Mike,  take  my  word  for 't,  she  's  no  madder  than 
yez  or.  me." 

"  Now,  Mag,  yez  don't  mane  it?  " 

"  Faith,  an'  I  do  mane  ivery  word  o'  it.  That 's  what  I  'm 
here  fur,  moind ;  and  the  Major  will  double  me  wages  sooner 
than  let  me  go,  becase  I  hould  me  tongue,  and  yez  know  I  do, 
Mike." 

"  Hould  yer  tongue.  I  niver  saw  the  bate  o'  ye  for  that 
now;  but  if  the  Major  is  nadin'  ye  so,  sure  he'd  consint  to 
our  marryin'  iny  way,  and  stayin'  on  just  the  same." 

"What's  the  use,  Mike?  Sure  it's  all  nonsince.  We're 
young  and  harty,  and  there  's  plenty  o'  time  to  be  marryin' 
whin  there  's  nothin'  ilse  to  be  done." 

"  Young,  is  it  ye  say  ?  Now,  Mag,  I  've  known  ye  these  twinty 
yares,  darlant,  and  always  wundered  how  ould  ye  were,  for  faith 
an'  ye've  looked  loike  a  pache  blossum  iver  since  I  furst  sane  ye. 
Now  it 's  thirty-foive  yares  ould  ye  say  ye  are,  an'  ye  call  that 
young  ? ' ' 

"  Mike,  what 's  the  matter  wid  ye?  Who  said  I  was  thirty- 
foive  years  ould?" 

"Ye  did,  yersilf." 

"Ye  're  a  loiar  !     How  could  I  iver  say  sich  a  thing?  " 


FREE    PRISONERS.  22$ 

"  Begorra,  Mag,  I  wundered  mesilf.  Sure,  it 's  only  afther 
tasin'  ye,  I  am,  ye  swate  little  buttercup,  ye  daisy.  Sure 
there  's  not  a  flower  in  the  garden  so  swate  and  purty  as  yer- 
silf,"  and  Mike  gave  her  a  desperate  hug. 

"Will  ye  lave  off  yer  foolin',  now,"  said  Mag,  without  at- 
tempting  to  resist. 

"Say,  Mag." 

"Say  it  yersilf." 

"Ax  the  Major  to-morrow." 

"  Ax  the  Major  what  ?  " 

"What  I  tould  ye." 
>    "  Ax  'im  yersilf." 

"  Lord  luv  ye.     Thin  ye  're  willin',  are  ye?  " 

"No,  I  ain't." 

"Now,  Mag." 

"Mike,  ye 're  a  fool." 

"Did  iver  ye  hare  tell  o'  the  birds  o'  a  feather?  Sure,  it's 
divilish  fond  ye  are  o'  a  fool,  Mag." 

"  Now  is  n't  it  ashamed  ye  are  o'  yersilf?  " 

"  Divil  a  bit,  Mag.  Shame  and  me  parted  company  long 
ago." 

"  Faith  an'  yez  spake  the  truth.  Sure,  yez  might  a'  bin  mar 
ried,  for  the  kinship's  run  out  entirely.  Jist  look  at  the  imper- 
dense  o'  the  spalpeen,  now,  wi  his  arrums  both  around  me. ' ' 

"It's  jintle  as  a  dove  ye  are,  Mag.  Sure,  ye  don't  moind 
me  arrums.  Faith,  ye  're  swater  ivery  day,  darlant.  If  I  was 
only  a  bae,  sure  I  'd  have  swates  fur  the  rist  o'  me  loife." 

"Mike,  ye 're  a  fool!  " 

"  Now,  Mag,  how  can  yez  call  yer  dare,  ould  gardner  a  fool? 
But  ye  're  always  right,  darlant;  faith,  an'  I  have  a  lanin'  fur 
grane  things." 

"  Do  ye  mane  me,  now,  Mike  ?  " 

P 


226  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  Mane  ye?  Now,  Mag,  ye  know  viry  well  there's  nuthin' 
grane  about  ye,  with  yer  beautiful  brown  frickles.  I  do  think 
frickles  is  the  beautifullest  thing  at  all.  One  day  I  heard  the 
Major  say,  says  he,  '  Miss  Alice  do  have  a  beautiful  nose,'  says 
he.  Now,  Mag,  it 's  too  long  and  strait  intirely  fur  my  loikin'. 
If  anything  do  plase  me  on  arth,  it  be  a  nose  jist  loike  yourn — 
short  and  round,  and  turnin'  sort  o'  wo'rshipful  loike  to  hivin 
all  the  time." 

"Oh,  Mike,  lave  off  yer  blarneyin'.     I'm  frazin'  cowld." 

"  Cowld  in  me  arrums?  Sure,  Mag,  the  foire  in  me  heart 
should  kape  ye  warrum." 

"  Foire,  do  ye  call  it  —  foire?  Sure,  it 's  nuthin'  but  smoke 
wid  yez,  Mike." 

"  Smoke?  Where  the  divil  do  the  smoke  cum  from,  if  there 
beant  no  fire?  It's  yer  own  fault,  Mag,  that  it  hasn't  ben  a 
blazin'  these  foive  yares.  Sure,  I  've  kept  the  foire  down,  an' 
if  I  didn't  take  me  poipe  now  an'  thin,  to  show  the  smoke 
the  way  out,  sure  it  would  'a  choked  me  intirely." 

"Faith,  an'  ye've  let  off  enough  stame  to-night;  an'  I'm 
goin'  in." 

"Jist  one  more  word,  Mag.     Will  ye  ax  the  Major?" 

"Whin?" 

"  To-morrow." 

"I'llsae." 

"Ah,  darlant,  say  yis." 

"Wall  — yis  — Mike." 

"Lord  luve  ye  now,  ye 're  an  angel.  One  kiss,  Mag,  just 
one,  Mag.  Sure,  ye  're  too  savin'  o'  thim,  intirely." 

"  It 's  savin'  thim  I  am  for  ye,  Mike." 

"  It 's  too  gud  ye  are  intirely  to  the  loike  o'  me.  But  don't 
be  after  savin'  'em  iny  more.  Sure,  I  'd  be  better  plased  if  ye  'd 
waste  'em  on  me." 


FREE    PRISONERS.  22/ 

CHAPTER    XL. 

ABSENT    FRIENDS. 
"  La  philosophic  qui  nous  promet  de  nous  rendre  heureux,  nous  trompe." 

WHEN  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gray  and  Walter  arrived  in  New 
York,  they  found  the  old  lady  Gray  in  declining  health. 
Her  bachelor  brother,  who  had  always  lived  with  her, 
and  superintended  her  affairs,  had  suddenly  died.  The  old 
lady,  never  very  robust,  was  so  overcome  by  the  sudden  calam 
ity,  she  declined  rapidly,  only  living  a  few  weeks  after  their 
return.  The  estate  had  been  judiciously  managed ;  every* 
thing  was  under  the  most  perfect  system,  and  George  found 
himself  much  better  off  than  he  had  expected.  Without  anything 
in  particular  to  do,  he  and  Walter  were  quite  out  of  their  ele 
ment,  and  the  uncongenial  winter  offered  no  inducements  to 
enter  into  business. 

To  Californians,  accustomed  to  a  mild  climate,  never  exces 
sively  warm  nor  cold,  the  biting  frosts  and  snow  of  New  York 
were  a  poor  substitute.  They'  soon  tired  of  their  inactive 

indoor  life, 

And  "  folded  their  tents  like  the  Arabs* 
And  as  silently  stole  away  " 

over  the  boisterous  Atlantic,  and  the  letter  Nellie  wrote  Mrs. 
Neal  relating  to  all  their  movements,  by  some  mischance,  never 
reached  its  destination. 

The  little  party  wandered  over  the  European  world,  among 
the  beauties  of  gay,  thoughtless,  fascinating  Paris,  and  up  the 
Rhine  with  its  picturesque  relics  of  feudal  times,  and  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  once  glorious  Roman  empire,  and  to  their  anxious 
friends  in  California  were  lost  entirely, 


228  FREE    PRISONERS. 

To  Americans,  born  in  the  new  world  of  energy  and  progress, 
travelling  over  the  lethargic  cities  of  Europe,  moss-covered  and 
gray  from  the  dust  of  centuries,  with  their  human  beings  for 
ever  in  the  same  place,  forever  repeating  the  same  things,  liv 
ing  in  an  atmosphere  of  arts  and  sciences,  yet  in  a  lethiferous 
condition  of  inactivity,  soon  brings  with  it  a  feeling  of  empti 
ness,  a  longing  for  the  busy  stir  and  bustle  of  progress. 

For  more  than  a  year  they  travelled  continually,  seeing  and 
studying  life  among  the  dead.  Then  came  a  yearning  for 
home,  a  longing  for  rest,  after  the  satiety  of  sightseeing,  and 
they  turned  their  faces  homeward.  But  when  they  arrived 
there,  New  York  had  lost  its  charms. .  The  connecting  links  of 
maternal  love  and  old  friendships  were  gone  —  the  cottage  in 
Grass  Valley,  among  the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains,  only  an 
swered  to  the  word  "  home."  Finally,  they  decided  to  return 
to  San  Francisco,  and  make  a  new  home  in  that  city  of  many 
hills,  with  its  invigorating  sea  breezes. 

During  their  foreign  travels  they  had  formed  the  acquaint 
ance  of  a  Mr.  Carlton  of  New  York,  who,  upon  learning  their 
intentions  of  returning  to  California,  insisted  upon  their  becom 
ing  acquainted  with  his  brother,  R.  R.  Carlton,  of  Sacramento, 
and  accordingly  gave  Walter  letters  to  him,  at  the  same  time 
writing  to  his  brother  of  his  new  friends. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  229 

! 

CHAPTER   XLI. 

THE   GHOSTLY    APPARITION. 

IT  was  Christmas  night.     Mr.  Warren's  house  was  a  scene  of' 
festivity  and  mirth.     The  elite  of  Sacramento  were  in  at 
tendance   at    the   marriage  of  his   adopted    daughter  with 
Mr.  Carlton,  the  junior  partner  of  a  large  banking  firm  of  that 
city.      Neither  of  them  had  been   long  in  California.      The 
young  lady  had  come  from  New  York,  under  the  care  of  a  gentle 
man  connected  with  the  bank,  at  the  same  time  Mr.  Carlton 
had  come  to  assihne  his  duties  as  partner.     It  was  a  perfect 
love  match,  with  a  shade  of  romance  that  made  it  interesting. 
Everybody  seemed  delighted  and  satisfied. 

Major  Warren  quite  renewed  his  youth  on  the  occasion,  by 
being  the  gayest  of  the  gay.  He  was  lavish  in  his  generosity 
toward  his  adopted  daughter  —  presented  her  with  an  elegant 
home,  furnished  with  all  the  requirements  of  comfort  and  lux 
ury,  and  made  her  wedding  night'a/^  long  to  be  remembered 
by  the  gay  and  thoughtless  as  one  of  unbroken  pleasure.  But 
it  was  a  night  of  tragedy  to  two  accursed  souls. 

Carriages  were  coming  and  going;  joyous  music  rang 
through  the  night  air;  the  murmuring  of  distant  voices  and 
merry  peals  of  laughter  could  be  heard  below  stairs,  while 
Mrs.  Wetherell  sat  rocking,  rocking,  looking  out  into  the  dark 
night,  toward  the  starry  heavens,  wistfully,  longingly  through 
the  iron  bars.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room  save  the  uncer 
tain  flicker  from  the  fire,  which  made  her  pale  face  look  ghast 
ly,  in  its  spasms  of  agony,  at  every  strain  of  merry  music  and 
sound  of  joyous  laughter.  Never  had  she  been  so  utterly 


23O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

wretched.  She  who  should  be  the  mistress  of  the  house,  the 
bright  particular  star  there  to-night,  was  barred  in  like  a  wild 
beast.  The  very  thought  almost  maddened  her. 

Christmas  !  Oh,  the  weary  years  since  Christmas  had  been  a 
festival  to  her.  When  in  the  humble  home  of  Mrs.  Graham, 
she  and  Henry  had  their  joyous  holidays  —  before  the  graves 
were  dug  in  the  old  churchyard,  and  her  soul  stained  with 
blood.  All  those  hidden  memories  came  back  horribly  fresh 
to  her  mind.  She  could  not  drive  them  away.  Remorseless 
thought  would  not  be  conquered,  but  ran  on  and  on  to  that 
stormy  night  in  New  Orleans,  to  which  there  had  been  no 
dawn  in  her  life.  She  rose  and  paced  the  floor  nervously, 
as  her  unbridled  thoughts  flew  on.  She  wrung  her  clinched 
hands,  and  with  all  the  agonizing  despair  of  a  lost  soul, 
cried:  "With  such  a  dark  past,  what  can  there  be  in  the 
future?" 

She  stopped  suddenly  before  a  piece  of  folded  paper  on  the 
floor.  A  shudder  ran  through  her  frame.  For  an  instant  she 
dare  not  pick  it  up.  Her  eyes  searched  every  corner  of  the 
small  room  with  the  terror  of  a  hunted  deer.  She  was  all  alone, 
and  nothing  was  changed.  The  window  was  lowered  at  the 
top  as  usual,  the  vines  were  stirred  by  the  night  winds. 
That  was  all,  and  yet  that  scrap  of  paper  had  not  been  on  the 
floor  a  moment  before.  As  if  ashamed  of  her  weakness,  she 
picked  it  up  hastily,  tore  it  open,  and  read  by  the  uncertain 
light  of  the  fire  : 

MRS.  LAURA  WETHERELL  : 

It  is  your  daughter's  marriage  they  are  celebrating  to-night 
beneath  your  living  tomb  —  the  little  girl  I  left  with  Agnes 
Neal  the  night  I  stole  her  children  for  you.  Mr.  Warren 
adopted  her  because  Mrs.  Neal  would  not  keep  her. 

Your  son  is  now  lying  in  Agnes  Neal's  house,  in  Nevada, 
dying  from  an  assassin's  blow,  while  you,  more  fiend  than 


FREE    PRISONERS.  23! 

woman,  are,  as  you  justly  deserve,  suffering  the  penalty  of  your 
infamy. 

Watch  your  window  at  midnight  to-night. 

JACK  HUNTER. 

At  every  word  the  woman  grew  more  livid.  Her  thin  lips 
parted ;  her  breathing  was  hard  and  irregular,  as  if  laboring 
under  a  death-blow. 

"Merciful  heaven!"  she  groaned,  and  fell  heavily  into  a 
chair,  overcome  with  horror.  "  Has  that  man  come  back  at 
last  to  complete  my  torture?"  she  gasped,  in  despair.  "A  ter 
ror  of  eighteen  years  should  cease  to  be  a  terror.  Every  day 
of  my  life,  during  those  wretched  years,  I  have  lived  in  dread 
of  meeting  him,  and  at  last  he  finds  me  here  —  here  —  to  tell  me 
Alice,  the  graceful,  lovely  girl  I  have  watched  so  often  from 
my  window,  is  mine,  mine,  to  fill  my  empty  life,  to  bless  my 
future." 

She  spoke  hurriedly,  as  if  fearful  of  losing  that  one  faint  ray 
of  sunshine  amid  the  darkness.  "But  what  will  she  say? 
What?"  All  hope  vanished  at  the  dread  question.  She 
leaned  back  wearier  and  more  desolate  than  ever,  as  she  whis 
pered  hoarsely:  "That  I  am  a  stranger,  whom  she  does  not 
know,  and  cannot  love,  and  my  empty  life  will  be  emptier  than 
ever.  They  will  tell  her  how  infamously  I  deserted  her,  and 
she  will  loathe  and  hate  me,  so  that  my  very  life-blood  will 
turn  to  venom.  My  son  dying  in  her  house,  under  her 
care  —  Agnes  Neal,  the  woman  to  whom  I  took  Linda  !  I  won 
der  I  did  not  drop  dead  at  the  sight  of  her.  To  think  that 
white-haired  woman  should  be  Linda's  mother,  and  I  the  means 
of  bringing  them  together  again,  to  be  "happy  —  to  be  happy!  " 

The  woman  gave  alow,  demoniac  laugh.  "Her  son  is  in 
prison.  fy.  nice  place  to  find  him,  surely.  At  least,  her  cup  of 
happiness  will  not  overflow.  How  quiet  everything  has  become 


232  FREE    PRISONERS. 

down-stairs.  The  music  has  stopped,  yet  I  hear  the  hum  of 
many  voices.  It  must  be  the  hour  for  supper,  when  the  wine 
is  poured  in  to  let  wit  out  —  to  make  the  nothingness  of  the 
merry  festival  charming.  The  bride  will  soon  go  to  her  new 
'home,  without  a  mother's  blessing,  and  the  man  who  loves  her 
would  hate  her  if  he  could  see  into  her  mother's  dark  past. 
I  could  almost  crush  their  young  lives  for  daring  to  be  happy 
under  the  same  roof  with  my  misery." 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  window.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
raised  her  eyes,  full  of  fiendish  light,  to  behold  the  ghostly  ap 
parition  of  Jack  Hunter,  by  the  single  gleam  of  a  night-lantern. 
His  lean,  white  face,  with  its  eyes  illumined  by  the  flickering 
light  of  consumption,  looking  unnaturally  large  and  wild  in 
their  hollow  sockets,  made  indeed  a  ghostly  thing  of  the  hand 
some  young  man  of  eighteen  years  before.  She  stood  appalled, 
staring  in  breathless  terror. 

As  the  music  rang  out  again  on  the  night  air,  she  gave  one 
heart-rending,  piercing  cry,  and  fell  senseless  to  the  floor,  in 
the  little  room  almost  over  the  revellers'  heads. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

THE    LIVING   TOMB. 

"  I  'm  like  the  dead  ere  death  comes  to  o'erwhelm." 

MAG  found  a  sadly  changed  woman  when  she  came  with 
the  breakfast  the  next  morning.     Pale  and  almost  lifeless, 
Mrs.  Wetherell  lay  upon  the  bed  staring  at  the  window. 
Mag  was  not  a  very  discerning  creature,  and  did  not  seem  to 
notice ;  for  she  too  had  been  up  most  of  the  preceding  night. 
Mrs.  Wetherell  neither  ate  nor  spoke ;  she  lay  still  and  white. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  233 

The  Angelas  pealed  out  at  twelve  o'clock.  "  Three  hail 
Marys.  I  wish  I  knew  what  a  '  hail  Mary  '  was ;  but  I  can  say 
something,"  and  the  cowed,  broken  woman  fell  on  her  knees 
on  the  floor,  with  uplifted  hands,  and  cried:  "God  have 
mercy  on  me !  God  have  mercy  on  me  !  God  have  mercy  on 
me  !  "  Overcome  by  the  effort,  she  crawled  back  to  bed,  deso 
late,  wretched. 

That  night  again,  at  midnight,  she  lay  staring  in  horror  at 
the  window,  when  the  ghostly  spectre  came  again,  with  the 
flash  of  light  from  his  night-lantern  gleaming  upon  his  face. 
The  terrified  woman  tried  to  scream,  but  voice  failed  her.  She 
mechanically  raised  herself  upon  her  arm,  her  eyes  riveted  upon 
the  ghostly  thing  before  her,  and  the  man  stared  wildly  back. 
So  a  fortnight  passed,  and  every  night  at  midnight  that  same 
dread  spectre  came. 

The  woman  went  to  the  glass,  and  shrank  in  terror  at  the 
answer  it  gave  back. 

"Two  weeks!"  she  gasped;  "two  weeks,  and  my  hair  is 
white.  No  more  streaks  of  black  —  snowy  white.  My  face  is 
gaunt,  my  eyes  sunken,  with  great  black  circles  around  them. 
I  am  a  shattered  thing ;  a  wreck  !  That  spectre  at  the  window 
has  done  in  two  weeks  what  a  year  and  a  half  could  not  do 
before." 

The  Angelus  pealed  out  in  the  still  air,  and  the  woman  fell 
upon  her  knees,  as  she  did  regularly  three  times  a  day,  and  in 
wild  despair  cried:  "God  have  mercy  on  me!  God  have 
mercy  on  me  !  God  have  mercy  on  me  !  ' ' 

When  Mag  came  with  the  tray  of  dinner,  she  grasped  her 
great  bony  hand  tightly,  turned  her  burning  black  eyes  to  her 
cold,  stony  orbs,  and  with  the  entreaty  of  a  longing  child 
begged : 

"Mag,  if  you  are  human;  if  there  is  anything  in  you  that 
20* 


234  FREE    PRISONERS. 

answers  to  the  name  of  woman,  for  God's  sake  hear  me.  Look 
at  me,  Mag  !  ' ' 

Mag  looked  at  the  trembling  woman  before  her  with  parted 
lips,  suspended  breath,  and  staring  eyes,  awaiting  her  answer ; 
but  the  cold,  gray  eyes  gave  no  token.  There  was  no  soul 
behind  them. 

The  woman  grasped  her  two  shoulders,  and,  with  the  despe 
ration  of  despair,  shrieked,  "  Mag!  Mag!  are  you  a  thing  of 
stone  ?  Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  being  tortured  to  death  ;  that 
I  am  dying?  For  heaven's  sake,  take  this  note  to  Major  War 
ren.  Tell  him  what  a  ghostly  thing  I  am.  Oh,  tell  him  to 
come  and  strike  the  blow  that  will  end  my  misery.  To  live  in 
death,  is  hell !  Go,  Mag,  go ;  bring  the  answer  soon,  or  I  shall 
die  waiting." 

Mag  took  the  note  without  answering  a  word  ;  as  she  closed 
the  door  her  face  smiled  again,  but  not  her  soul. 

An  hour  after,  Mrs.  Wetherell's  door  opened,  and  Major 
Warren  entered.  Changed,  too,  sadly  changed.  The  affable, 
pompous  coxcomb  was  stooped  and  gray,  and  walked  with 
heavier  step.  His  eyes  had  become  restless,  as  if  in  search  of 
something  they  could  not  find  —  perpetually  seeking. 

The  Major  started  in  horror  from  the  ghastly  woman  before 
him,  but  commanding  himself,  said,  coldly:  "I  believe  you 
sent  for  me,  madam  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Wetherell,  quietly,  with  her  wild, 
black  eyes  riveted  upon  the  Major's  face.  "  I  wanted  to  beg  of 
you  again,  what  I  have  so  often  written  in  vain,  to  have  mercy 
on  me,  and  release  me  from  this  living  tomb.  You  have  kept 
me  here  already  a  year  and  a  half.  It  seems  like  a  century. 
I  know  I  have  sinned  grievously ;  but,  oh,  has  not  my  suffering 
been  sufficient  expiation  ?" 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  pale  and  trembling.     The  Major 


FREE    PRISONERS.  235 

regarded  her  in  silence  a  few  seconds,  with  an  expression  of 
absolute  loathing  upon  his  once  benign  countenance,  then  said 
slowly  and  deliberately : 

"You  have  had  time  to  reflect  and  make  atonement,  I  admit, 
and  also  to  concoct  several  new  villanies  since  you  have  had  the 
exclusive  pleasure  of  your  own  society." 

"Oh,  Major,  can  you  never  forgive  me?"  pleaded  the 
wretched  woman. 

"  No,  never!  "  hissed  the  merciless  Major,  between  his  set 
teeth. 

"  Can  I  not  once  more  see  the  light  of  day  before  I  die?" 
she  cried,  wildly. 

"Never,  madam!"  answered  the  Major,  sternly.  "You 
shall  never  cross  that  threshold  until  you  are  carried  out." 

In  that  living  tomb  forever,  with  that  spectre  at  the  window ! 
The  terror  of  the  sentence  overwhelmed  the  woman,  whose 
nervous  system  was  utterly  shattered  from  nightly  watching  and 
horror.  She  sprang  suddenly  toward  the  Major,  who  was  at 
the  door,  about  to  leave  her,  and  fell  prostrate  at  his  feet. 

A  momentary  feeling  of  mercy  took  possession  of  him.  He 
raised  her  with  difficulty,  and  placed  her  upon  the  bed,  where 
she  lay  passive  and  lifeless.  He  bathed  her  face,  and  worked 
with  her  some  time  before  he  could  discern  the  least  indication 
of  returning  consciousness.  Finally,  after  vigorous  efforts  to 
restore  her,  she  opened  her  great  wild  eyes,  glassy  in  death,  and 
with  great  effort  gasped  : 

"  In  the  writing-desk  is  the  history  of  my  life.  Read  it,  and 
send  it  to  Mrs.  Agnes  Neal,  Nevada.  Learn  what  »a  fate  mine 
has  been  —  how  I  have  been  twice  married,  yet  never  a  legal 
wife  —  mother  of  children  who  do  not  know  me.  Read  with 
mercy  in  your  heart,  for  my  life  has  been  what  the  fates  decreed 
—  inglorious  and  wretched.  I  am  neither  maiden,  wife,  widow, 
nor  mother,  yet  all." 


236  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Her  voice  had  almost  died  away,  her  breathing  was  labored 
and  quick,  when,  with  a  sudden,  almost  superhuman  effort, 
she  raised  herself  upon  her  arm,  and  with  all  the  venom  of  a 
devil,  hissed,  between  her  set  teeth,  with  her  dying  breath : 
"Your  fate  will  be  like  mine.  There  shall  be  no  more  peace 
for  you.  You  are  my  murderer  !  " 

She  fell  back  upon  the  pillow,  dead.  The  Angelus  pealed  out, 
"God  have  mercy  on  her  soul!  " 

The  Major  took  her  writing-desk,  and  went  in  search  of  Mag 
to  prepare  her  for  burial.  Still  and  white  she  lay  upon  the 
bed  until  after  dark,  when  Mike  brought  a  coffin,  placed  it  on 
two  chairs  in  front  of  the  vine-covered  window,  and  assisted 
Mag  to  lay  the  lifeless  form  in  its  narrow  house,  then  closed  the 
door  and  retired  to  sleep,  for  the  next  morning  before  daylight 
she  was  to  be  buried.  The  same  heartless  order  she  had  given 
for  the  interment  of  Captain  Wetherell  by  his  servants  had 
been  given  for  her  burial  by  Major  Warren  to  his. 

It  was  midnight ;  still  Major  Warren  sat  poring  over  the 
pages  of  Mrs.  Wetherell' s  checkered  life,  written  unsparingly 
by  herself.  Now  and  then  he  would  give  a  sudden  start  and 
look  searchingly  about  him,  as  if  haunted  by  those  last  desperate 
words,  uttered  like  a  curse  by  the  dying  woman,  "You  are 
my  murderer  !  ' ' 

It  was  the  hour  for  Jack  Hunter's  visit.  Day  after  day  he 
had  watched  the  sad  havoc  he  was  making  of  the  once  hand 
some  woman.  His  life  seemed  to  have  merged  into  a  relent 
less,  hungry  desire  to  see  her  fade  day  by  day,  and  die  inch  by 
inch,  as  he  was  doing,  that  kept  him  at  his  fiendish  work.  He 
was  growing  so  feeble  it  was  with  great  effort  he  ascended  the 
ladder  to  the  fatal  window.  When  he  turned  his  light  into  the 
room,  the  bed  was  empty,  and  the  frightened,  terrified  woman, 
who  had  glared  at  him  so  wildly,  night  after  night,  lay  calm 


FREE    PRISONERS.  237 

and  still  in  an  open  coffin  before  him.  He  became  suddenly 
dizzy  —  his  lantern  dropped  to  the  ground — he  lost  his  hold 
and  fell  among  the  rounds  of  the  ladder.  There,  within  af  few 
feet  of  his  victim,  and  almost  as  lifeless,  hung  the  gaunt,  dying 
man,  until  strength  returned  sufficiently,  and  he  crawled  down, 
and  slowly  tottered  away. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

AFTER   THE   WEDDING. 
"Nil  desperandum  "  —  Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining, 

THE  afternoon  following  the  wedding,  Mr.  Carlton  and  his 
young  wife  took  the  steamer  for  San  Francisco,  where  they 
spent  several  days,  accepting  many  hospitalities  from  George 
and  Nellie  Gray. 

It  was  after  dinner.  The  ladies  had  retired  to  the  drawing- 
room,  while  the  gentlemen  lingered  over  their  cigars.  fc  A  friend 
called  upon  Mr.  Gray  relative  to  some  urgent  business ;  so  he 
excused  himself,  leaving  Mr.  Carlton  and  Walter  alone. 

"  This  is  your  first  visit  to  California,  I  presume,  Mr.  French," 
said  Mr.  Carlton,  carelessly. 

"Oh,  no;  I  am  a  pioneer.  Came  here  in  '49,  and  have 
only  been  absent  a  year  and  a  half  since. ' ' 

"  Indeed  !  "  answered  Carlton,  in  surprise.  "  I  thought  this 
was  your  first  visit." 

"No;  I  passed  several  years  in  Grass  Valley." 

"Grass  Valley!"  exclaimed  Carlton,  "why,  that  used  to 
be  my  stamping  ground." 

"'Strange  we  never  met  there,"  and  Walter  gave  him  a 
searching  look. 


238  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Carlton  made  no  answer.  As  if  to  change  the  subject,  he 
asked,  abruptly : 

"  Perhaps  you  knew  Miss  Wetherell?  " 

Walter  gave  a  start.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  heard  that 
name  in  a  year  and  a  half.  He  answered,  coldly,  "  I  had  the 
pleasure. ' ' 

Carlton  had  thrown  back  his  head,  and  partly  closed  his 
eyes,  as  a  great  puff  of  smoke  went  wreathing  over  his  head. 
He  neither  noted  Walter's  manner  nor  changed  tone,  but  con 
tinued  his  interrogatories.  "What  became  of  her?" 

"She  married,"  answered  Walter,  laconically. 

"Whom  did  she  marry?"  persisted  Carlton. 

"Major  Warren,  of  Sacramento." 

"Who?"  thundered  Carlton,  in  amazement. 

"Major  Warren,  of  Sacramento,"  again  answered  Walter, 
colder  and  harder  than  ever. 

"She  married  Major  Warren,  of  Sacramento?"  repeated 
Carlton,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  aright.  "Where  did  you  get 
that  valuable  information  ?  ' ' 

"  From  the  newspapers." 

Walter  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair,  and  puffed  more  vigor 
ously  at  the  inoffensive  cigar. 

"Don't  you  know  that  my  wife  is  Major  Warren's  adopted 
daughter?"  asked  Carlton,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  Walter, 
as  he  brushed  the  ashes  off  his  cigar. 

It  was  Walter's  turn  to  be  astonished. 

"  His  adopted  daughter  !     And  you  know  his  wife  ?  " 

"He  has  no  wife." 

"Then  she  is  dead."  Walter  scarcely  spoke  above  a  whis 
per,  and  his  head  dropped  upon  his  hand,  as  if  in  sudden  pain. 

"  Of  course  she  is  dead.     She  died  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago." 

"But,  Linda  — I  mean  Miss  Wetherell?"  asked  Walter, 
eagerly. 


" 


FREE    PRISONERS.  239 

He  was  never  married  to  Miss  Wetherell." 
Great  God!  can  that  be  true?"  Walter  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  paced  the  floor.  "  Then  that  infamous  thing  that  has 
been  gnawing  at  my  heart  a  year  and  a  half  was  a  lie.  I 
doubted  her  fidelity,  and  went  away  like  a  coward,  when  I 
should  have  known  she  was  true  as  a  fixed  star,  and  stayed 
to  defend  her.  Carlton,  she  would  have  been  my  wife,  but 
for  that  lying  statement  in  the  paper  that  told  of  her  marriage 
with  Major  Warren." 

"I  do  not  understand  how  such  an  infamous  lie  could  be 
published,"  answered  Carlton,  indignantly. 

"  Nor  I  ;  but  I  will  find  out,"  answered  Walter,  emphatically, 
and  turning  suddenly  to  Carlton,  "  where  is  she  to  be  found  ?  " 

11  1  don't  know.  When  I  first  returned,  I  went  to  Grass  Val 
ley  to  make  some  inquiries  concerning  her  brother,  who  was  in 
trouble  when  I  left  here  on  my  return  to  New  York.  The  an 
swer  was  that  he  had  been  sent  to  State's  prison  for  a  term  of 
seven  years.  The  father  was  dead,  and  the  family,  consisting 
of  mother  and  daughter,  had  moved  away." 

"  Hold  !  I  know  how  to  find  her.  There  was  a  widow  re 
siding  in  Nevada,  who  would  know  all  about  her.  You  are 
going  home  to-morrow?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I  will  accompany  you,  on  my  way  to  Nevada." 

"All  right  ;  and  if  my  wife  would  like  to  make  a  trip  up  into 
the  mountains,  we  will  go  with  you  all  the  way." 

"I  would  be  glad  to  have  your  company;  but  it  is  a  long  and 
tiresome  journey  to  undertake  on  an  uncertainty.  If  you  will 
excuse  me  to  the  ladies,  I  will  go  down  street  and  telegraph  to 
Nevada,  and  ascertain  if  Mrs.  Neal  is  still  residing  there." 

"All  right;  and  send  me  word  in  the  morning,  will  you?" 

"Yes;  as  soon  as  the  answer  comes." 


24O  FREE    PRISONERS. 

It  was  with  a  strange  fluttering  at  the  heart  Walter  went  on 
his  errand;  that  heart  so  cold  and  bitter  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  leaped  into  new  life.  The  words  of  the  good  Widow  Neal, 
"  Never  doubt  her,  Mr.  French,  she  has  been  wronged,"  came 
back  with  wonderful  freshness.  She  had  been  wronged,  and 
he,  the  faithless  coward,  had  decamped,  and  left  her  to  bear  her 
own  burdens. 

"  Scoundrel  that  I  was !  "  he  muttered,  in  savage  rage  against 
himself.  "I  don't  deserve  to  find  her.  Yet  I  feel  such  a 
strong  conviction  that  I  will,  it  seems  already  a  reality.  I 
will  find  her  the  same  faithful  girl,  whose  great  brown  eyes  — 
those  soft,  truthful  eyes — will  chide  my  faithlessness  every  time 
they  are  turned  to  mine.  A  year  and  a  half  I  have  been  wan 
dering  over  the  earth  in  search  of  happiness  and  pleasure.  A 
year  and  a  half  she  has  been  closeted  with  sorrow.  I  have 
grown  restless  and  cynical ;  she  patient  and  enduring.  1  will 
not  be  worthy  of  her  when  I  find  her.  When  I  find  her  —  if 
ever  I  do." 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

UNRAVELLING    MYSTERIES. 
"  Non  ignara  mail  miseris  succurrere  disco." 

next  morning  Walter  was  pacing  his  room  restlessly, 
when  Nellie  entered  with  a  telegraphic  despatch.     He  tore 
it  open  hastily  and  ran  his  eyes  over  the  contents,  which 
simply  read:   " There  is  such  a  person  living  here."     Walter's 
face  lighted  up.     He  grasped  Nellie's  hand,  and,  to  her  inquir 
ing  look,  answered : 

"  Linda  was  never  married  to  Major  Warren,  Nellie.     There 


FREE    PRISONERS.  24! 

was  something  wrong  about  that.  I  got  it  all  from  Carlton. 
His  wife  is  Major  Warren's  adopted  daughter.  The  Major  was 
not  married  at  all." 

Nellie  regarded  him  with  a  strange,  puzzled  expression.  "  But 
that  statement  in  the  paper,  what  about  that  ?  ' ' 

"As  you  once  answered  me,  with  regard  to  that  note,  her 
mother  was  at  the  bottom  of  it.  We  will  soon  know  all  about 
it  now,  for  I  telegraphed  to  Nevada  last  evening,  immediately 
after  my  conversation  with  Carlton,  to  ascertain  if  Mrs.  Neal 
still  lived  there,  and  here  is  my  answer.  I  will  go  to  Sacra 
mento  this  afternoon  with  Carlton  and  his  wife,  and  they  may 
accompany  me  on  up  to  Nevada." 

"Really,  Walter,  this  is  altogether  strange.  I  can  scarcely 
comprehend  it  at  once.  Poor  Linda !  What  if  we  had  judged 
her  too  harshly  after  all  ?  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Walter,  although 
I  never  mentioned  it  before,  for  fear  of  fretting  you,  I  have 
never  been  entirely  comfortable  with  regard  to  that  matter, 
especially  the  way  we  hurried  off,  without  making  any  effort  to 
ascertain  the  truth.  We  should  have  been  prepared  for  any 
thing,  knowing  the  character  of  her  mother  as  we  did." 

"You  are  right,  Nellie;  but  it  is  rather  late  to  be  thinking 
of  all  that  now.  To-morrow  night  I  will  know  and  telegraph 
you  at  once." 

"And  bring  her  right  down  here,  if  you  find  her,  Walter." 

"  If  she  will  come,  Nellie  ;  but  you  forget  we  are  the  offend 
ers,  and  she  may  not  forgive  us  so  easily." 

"Never  fe|r  that.  Circumstances  strongly  prompted  our 
actions,  and  Linda  has  the  good  sense  to  understand  it.  But 
why  did  Mrs.  Neal  never  answer  the  letter  which  I  wrote  her 
from  New  York  ?  ' ' 

"You  will  have  to  ask  Mrs.  Neal  that  question,"  answered 
Walter,  impatiently  pacing  the  floor.  "I  will  go  down  to  the 

21  Q 


242  FREE    PRISONERS. 

hotel  now,  to  give  Carlton  my  answer.  There  will  scarcely  be 
time  for  me  to  come  back  again,  so  good-by,  Nell." 

"Good-by,  dear  Walter.  I  hope  you  will  return  a  happier 
man  than  you  go  away,  and  not  alone." 

Walter  found  the  young  bride  and  groom  in  a  happy  state  of 
indifference.  It  seemed  perfectly  immaterial  to  them  whether 
they  took  a  trip  down  the  bay,  or  over  the  mountains,  so  long 
as  they  went  together. 

Everything  was  soon  arranged,  and  the  afternoon  steamer 
took  them  all  to  Sacramento.  The  following  morning  they 
drove  to  Mr.  Carlton 's  home  for  breakfast,  where  the  stage  was 
to  call  for  them.  The  roads  were  so  muddy,  it  was  utterly  im 
possible  to  go  in  a  private  conveyance ;  besides,  Alice  had  never 
ridden  in  a  stage-coach,  and  the  whole  trip  was  a  novelty  to 
her,  in  which  she  entered  with  girlish  delight. 

Promptly  the  stage  came  dashing  round  the  corner,  and  stop 
ped  with  a  suddenness  almost  incredible,  considering  its  previ 
ous  momentum.  "All  aboard  here  for  Nevada,"  rang  out  the 
driver's  voice  in  a  high  tenor. 

The  stage  contained  but  one  passenger.  On  the  back  seat, 
all  muffled  up  in  a  great  coat,  sat  Major  Warren.  There  were 
exclamations  of  surprise  from  all  excepting  Walter,  who  did 
not  even  know  the  gentleman  by  sight. 

Carlton  at  once  introduced  him,  and  in  his  off-hand  way  ex 
plained  the  mistake  he  had  so  long  been  laboring  under  with 
regard  to  his  sweetheart. 

"  I  think  he  will  find  her  all  right  in  Nevada,"  quietly  re 
marked  the  Major ;  and,  as  if  he  was  getting  rid  of  a  very  un 
comfortable  load,  he  related  all  the  circumstances  with  regard 
to  the  fraudulent  marriage,  slightly  modifying  his  own  rage 
when  he  discovered  what  a  dupe  he  had  been. 

"Where  is  the  mother  now?"  asked  Carlton. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  243 

"She  is  dead,"  answered  the  Major,  laconically,  with  a 
nervous  glance  from  one  to  the  other,  and  for  a  long  time  there 
was  perfect  silence.  A  few  passengers  joined  them  for  short 
distances,  but  most  of  the  day  they  were  alone. 

Carlton  was  the  very  embodiment  of  sparkling  fun  —  the 
life  of  the  little  party.  The  uncertainty  of  Walter's  journey 
made  him  anxious  and  thoughtful. 

The  Major,  although  evidently  relieved  after  unburdening  him-  ' 
self,  was  so  thoroughly  possessed  by  the  one  subject,  that  he  was 
continually  reverting  to  it.  He  censured  himself  severely  for 
his  stubborn  persistence  in  trying  to  marry  a  young  girl,  know 
ing  she  did  not  care  for  him,  but  he  positively  asserted  he  never 
suspected  she  loved  anyone  else,  or  he  would  not  have  followed 
the  course  he  did.  To  prove  the  duplicity  of  which  he  had  been 
the  victim,  he  read  extracts  from  the  dead  woman's  own  story. 
They  became  so  interested,  that  he  began  at  the  beginning 
and  read  everything  excepting  the  last  few  pages,  which  related 
to  Alice  and  Mrs.  Wetherell's  imprisonment  by  himself.  Those 
he  omitted,  waiting  to  consult  with  Mrs.  Neal. 

It  was  a  strange  history  to  the  bright  young  wife,  who  listened 
eagerly,  as  she  sat  with  her  husband's  hand  in  hers,  as  one  looks 
intently  at  a  far-off  storm  from  a  place  of  security,  never  dream 
ing  there  could  be  any  connecting  link  between  her  pure  young 
life  and  the  tempest-tossed  creature  who  had  written  those 
pages,  dark  with  .crime,  replete  with  suffering  and  wretched 
ness. 

On  their  arrival  in  Nevada,  the  party  stopped  at  the  hotel, 
with  the  exception  of  Walter,  who  impatiently  set  out  at  once 
for  the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Neal,  where  he  had  spent  so  many  hap 
py  hours  in  the  days  gone  by.  As  he  ascended  the  steps,  he 
heard  the  tones  of  a  piano  accompanying  a  soft,  sweet  voice 
that  was  strangely  familiar.  He  stood  and  listened  ;  the  song 


244  FREE    PRISONERS. 

seemed  a  wail  from  a  wounded  heart,  as  the  words  came  soft 
and  distinct : 

You  think,  because  you  see  me  smile, 

That  I  have  never  wept ; 
That  not  a  cloud  of  woe  or  guile 

Across  my  life  has  swept; 
That  mine  has  been  a  sunny  way, 

Bordered  with  thornless  flowers; 
But,  ah !  my  heart,  though  light  and  gay, 

Has  known  its  bitter  hours. 

You  think  I  have  a  happy  heart, 

Where  grief  has  never  been; 
But  I  have  learned  concealment's  art, 

And  hide  the  tear-stains  in. 
I  fear  the  world's  cold,  mocking  eye, 

And  shrink  from  piteous  tones, 
And  cleave  to  Him  who  reigns  on  high, 

In  silence  and  alone. 

As  the  music  ceased,  the  door  opened,  and  a  lady  stepped 
out  upon  the  porch.  It  was  Lucy  going  for  the  physician,  as 
Bill  had  suddenly  grown  worse.  She  was  startled  at  Walter's 
presence,  and  he,  in  his  confusion,  scarcely  knowing  what  he 
said,  asked : 

"  Is  Miss  Wetherell  at  home?" 

"Yes,  sir;  will  you  walk  in?"  answered  Lucy,  hurriedly,  with 
her  mind  more  on  the  doctor  than  the  stranger. 

Walter  stepped  hesitatingly  into  the  dark  room.  Linda  had 
finished  her  song,  sung  with  a  choking  voice,  for  a  dying  man. 
It  had  come  like  an  echo  from  her  own  sad  heart,  and  when  it 
was  ended,  she  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hands  and  wept  bit 
terly.  The  room  was  quite  dark,  only  lighted  by  the  dim  rays 
from  the  lamp  in  the  adjoining  sick  chamber. 

Walter  stood  silently  wondering  what  to  do  or  say.  It  was  a 
strange  way  to  enter  a  house,  unannounced,  perhaps  an  unwel- 


FREE    PRISONERS.  245 

come  guest.  As  he  stood  deliberating,  Linda's  suppressed  sobs 
reached  his  ear  and  went  to  his  heart  like  daggers.  There  was 
no  more  irresolution.  With  one  bound  he  was  kneeling  by  her 
side,  with  his  arm  about  her,  and  with  all  the  eloquent  entreaty 
of  his  deep  passionate  nature,  cried : 

"Linda,  my  darling,  do  not  weep  so  bitterly." 

Linda  gave  a  faint  cry  of  joy. 

"Walter!  where  did  you  come  from?  I  thought  I  was  never 
going  to  see  you  again." 

' '  I  assure  you  it  is  only  forty-eight  hours  since  I  knew  you 
were  not  another  man's  wife.  I  have  lost  no  time  in  coming, 
my  angel.  But  can  you  forgive  me  for  deserting  you  in  such  a 
cowardly  way  ? ' ' 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Walter,"  answered  Linda,  in 
her  old,  frank  way.  "  Mother  told  me  all  about  it." 

"Your  mother  told  you  before  she  died?" 

"My  mother  is  not  dead." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  she  is,  and  you  have  not  heard.  Major 
Warren  came  up  with  us  in  the  stage,  to-day,  and  told  us  her 
whole  sad  history." 

"  But,  my  dear  Walter,  it  is  you  who  are  mistaken.  You 
are  talking  of  Mrs.  Wetherell.  Everything  is  changed  since 
you  were  here,  and  all  her  unnatural  conduct  been  explained. 
She  was  no  relation  of  mine." 

"Of  course,  I  am  confused.  She  told  all  about  abducting 
you  in  the  memoirs  of  her  life,  which  Major  Warren  read  us. 
I  assure  you,  darling,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  learn  she  was  no 
relation  to  you,  for  a  more  dreadful  woman  never  lived." 

"Oh,  I  know  it;  but,  Walter,  I  have  found  my  own  dear 
mother  from  whom  she  stole  me.     She  unknowingly  brought 
me  back  to  her  in  this  dear  little  cottage.     She  is  our  beloved 
Mother  Neal." 
21* 


246  FREE    PRISONERS. 

"  She  is  your  mother,  Linda  !    Is  it  possible?  " 

"  Yes,  Walter,  and  here  she  comes  to  confirm  it.  Come  on, 
mother,  in  the  dark."  Linda  took  her  hand  and  placed  it  in 
Walter's. 

"  Mother,  this  is  Walter  come  back  to  us,  jus.t  as  you  pre 
dicted." 

"Let  us  hope  never  to  part  again,"  said  Walter,  earnestly, 
as  he  affectionately  embraced  the  new  mother. 

Reunion  and  joy  in  one  room,  dissolution  and  sorrow  in  the 
next.  There  is  always  a  thin  partition  between  them. 

Lucy  returned  with  the  doctor,  and  Linda  was  left  alone 
with  Walter. 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door.  On  opening  it,  Linda  stood 
face  to  face  with  Major  Warren,  who  was  followed  by  Mr.  Carl- 
ton.  She  involuntarily  gave  a  start  on  seeing  the  Major,  and 
went  toward  Walter. 

"  Do  not  run  away  from  me,  Linda ;  you  have  no  more  cause 
to  fear  me.  I  wronged  you,  child,  innocently,  but  unpardon- 
ably.  I  should  have  known  better  than  to  think  of  winning 
your  true  young  heart  with  gold.  Forgive  me,  child,  if  you 
can.  I  am  an  older  and  a  wiser  man  than  I  was  when  I  perse 
cuted  you." 

There  were  tears  in  the  Major's  eyes,  and  his  voice  trembled 
with  emotion. 

Older  ?  Yes,  twenty  years  might  have  passed,  instead  of  one 
and  a  half,  since  Linda  had  seen  him,  he  was  so  stooped  and 
gray.  She  took  the  offered  hand,  and  answered  with  deep 
feeling  : 

"  Major  Warren,  I  forgave  you  long  ago;  for  I  knew  how  you 
were  wronged." 

She  raised  her  eyes  for  the  first  time  to  Mr.  Carlton's  face, 
and,  with  a  cry  of  pleased  surprise,  sprang  to  his  side. 


FREE    PRISONERS.  247 

"  Bob  Rivers  !    Where  did  you  come  from?  " 

Walter  and  the  Major  looked  amazed. 

Bob  smiled  at  Linda  as  he  took  both  her  hands.  "Little 
detective,  I  did  not  think  you  would  recognize  me." 

That  loudly  spoken  "  Bob  Rivers  !  "  echoed  in  the  next  room, 
and  Mrs.  Neal  came  with  a  message  from  Bill.  Walter  intro 
duced  her  to  Major  Warren,  then  regarded  Carlton  an  instant 
with  hesitation,  when  Bob  promptly  answered  : 

"Bob  Rivers  Carlton.  I  dropped  the  Carlton  awhile,  out  of 
respect  to  my  father.  But,  all  things  considered,  I  would  like 
to  drop  the  '  Rivers  '  now." 

Mrs.  Neal  briefly  explained  that  her  son  was  in  a  dying  con 
dition.  The  name  was  familiar  to  him,  and  he  had  requested 
Mr.  Carlton  to  come  into  the  adjoining  room.  Bob  followed 
Mrs.  Neal  to  Bill's  bedside.  He  did  not  immediately  recognize 
the  changed  Bill  Brown,  but  Bill  had  no  time  to  lose,  and  he 
began  his  business  at  once. 

"  Bob,  I  am  a  dying  man,  and  if  the  good  mother  will  leave 
us  alone  a  little  while,  I  have  something  to  tell  you.  I  am 
afraid  I  am  putting  it  off  too  long  ;  but,  Bob,  it  is  a  hard  thing 
to  turn  yourself  into  a  villain  the  last  hours  of  your  life,  and 
blacken  your  memory  to  all  who  love  you." 

"Yes,  Bill ;  but  the  truth  blackens  nothing.  Make  yourself 
just  what  you  are,  and  love  will  be  lenient." 

"Bob,  the  good  Lord  brought  you  here.  Of  all  men,  none 
could  do  for  me  in  my  dying  hours  what  you  can.  That  good 
woman  has  led  me  so  tenderly  and  confidently  to  the  verge  of 
my  next  life,  I  do  not  dread  the  final  going.  I  have  grown 
so  light  in  mind  and  body,  when  I  unload  the  one  weight  on 
my  mind,  I  believe  a  breath  would  waft  me  over.  Do  not  think 
I  was  going  without  telling  her ;  but  I  was  waiting.  If  I  had 
waited  a  little  too  long." 


248  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Bill  laid  still,  with  his  eyes  closed,  a  few  seconds,  and  Bob 
thought  he  would  not  have  long  to  wait,  his  going  would  be 
soon.  Bill  opened  his  eyes,  and  continued,  with  difficulty  : 

"  Bob,  you  remember  young  Wetherell,  who  was  in  jail  with 
us,  and  sentenced  to  seven  years  in  San  Quentin  for  robbing  a 
teamster  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"  I  was  the  man  who  robbed  that  teamster,  Bob." 

"You !  "  exclaimed  Bob,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Yes,  I  did  it,"  answered  Bill,  softly,  with  a  pleading  look 
at  Bob.  Then,  with  a  faint  glimmer  of  the  old  fire,  he  added : 
"But  the  fellow  lied.  I  was  out  hunting,  and  he  stopped  me 
with  a  pistol,  not  seeing  my  gun,  which  I  had  set  against  a  tree. 
It  was  more  to  punish  the  fellow  than  anything  else,  that  I 
turned  and  made  the  same  demand  of  him.  He  was  a  coward, 
so  he  gave  up  his  watch  and  five  hundred  dollars.  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  I  felt  the  night  young  Wetherell's  sister  liberated 
me  from  jail  —  I,  the  guilty  one,  went  out  through  her  agency, 
while  her  innocent  brother  was  left  to  his  doom.  I  went  to 
his  trial,  and  came  very  near  confessing  my  crime,  but  I  did  n't. 
I  was  too  weak  in  my  selfishness." 

Bill  rested  a  few  seconds  again,  then  continued  : 

"  I  am  Wetherell's  half-brother,  and  we  look  wonderfully 
alike.  Mrs.  Neal  is  his  mother.  His  wife  and  sister  wait  upon 
me  like  ministering  angels,  and  I  want  to  die  that  way  —  to 
pass  off  without  their  curses  following  me.  Can  you  fix  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Bob,  with  choking  voice.  "What  has 
become  of  the  teamster  ?  ' ' 

"  He  was  working  ten  miles  from  here  a  few  weeks  ago.  I 
never  lost  track  of  him.  There  is  pen  and  paper.  Wouldn't  it 
be  well  to  take  my  statement,  Bob,  and  get  a  notary  to  fix  it  up  ? 
I  have  nothing  to  will  anybody  ;  but  that  would  bring  them 


FREE    PRISONERS.  249 

happiness  —  that  is  something.  But,  Bob,  say  nothing  until  I 
am  laid  away.  Let  them  go  with  me  to  my  resting-place  with 
love  and  peace.  Promise  me,  Bob." 

Bob  promised  solemnly,  then  wrote  the  statement  as  Bill  dic 
tated  ;  folded  and  placed  it  under  his  pillow.  He  hurriedly 
brought  a  notary,  and  the  statement  of  Bill  Neal  was  solemnly 
sworn  to  and  sealed. 

"  Bill,  if  you  will  tell  me  where  to  find  the  teamster,  I  will  go 
after  him,"  said  Bob,  kindly,  to  the  tired  Bill,  who  seemed  to 
think  there  was  nothing  more  for  him  to  do.  "  It  might  be 
best.  Your  statement  might  be  doubted,  as  you  are  under  the 
care  of  Wetherell's  family,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  the  law." 

"  That  is  so,"  answered  the  dying  man,  thoughtfully.  Tired 
and  exhausted  by  his  previous  efforts,  he  slowly  explained  where 
the  teamster  could  be  found. 

Bob  left  him  with  Mrs.  Neal  and  hastened  to  the  hotel  to 
explain  his  prolonged  absence  to  Alice,  while  a  horse  was  being 
brought  for  him  to  start  in  search  of  the  teamster. 

Ten  miles  in  the  mountains  in  December,  with  only  the  faint 
light  of  the  stars  to  guide  one,  is  not  an  easy  task,  even  to  one 
who  has  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  co.untry.  Bob  neither 
heeded  the  loneliness  nor  the  distance,  but,  intent  upon  his  mis 
sion,  hurried  along,  wondering  what  strange  fatality  had  brought 
him  at  the  eleventh  hour  to  Bill  Brown's  death-bed  to  save  Ben 
Wetherell. 

His  thoughts  went  back  to  the  days  of  '49,  when  he  crossed 
the  plains  in  company  with  the  West  family,  and  Fannie, 
whom  he  had  loved  with  all  the  fire  of  youth  —  sweet,  gentle 
Fannie.  Then  her  disappearance  and  his  suspicions  of  Curly 
Smith.  His  thirst  for  vengeance.  His  reckless,  desperate  life 
with  that  villain  and  his  pals,  hoping  to  trace  the  crime  and 
avenge  the  wrong.  His  meeting  with  Linda,  and  his  oath  to 


25O  FREE     PRISONERS. 

her  to  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead.  Soon  after  fate  brought 
him  to  the  man  and  woman  in  whose  house  Fannie  had  died ; 
and,  after  all,  the  suspected  villain  was  innocent. 

"Why  was  I  brought  here?  The  answer  is  plain,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  'Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters;  for  thou  shalt 
find  it  after  many  days.'  Linda  saved  me;  for  the  reckless 
life  I  was  leading  was  becoming  fascinating.  She  put  out  her 
hand  to  me  when  I  was  sinking  in  the  slough  of  moral  degra 
dation.  Now  I  am  to  lift  her  brother  from  that  slough.  For 
the  first  time  I  fully  realize  there  is  a  God.  I  understand  the 
meaning  of  justice.  Religion,  so  called,  confuses  and  misleads 
more  souls  than  it  saves.  It  commands  us  to  pray  after  pre 
scribed  rules,  chant  according  to  fashion,  and  believe  as  the 
minister  dictates.  His  doctrines  are  according  to  the  amount 
of  brains  with  which  he  is  gifted  and  the  opportunities  he  has 
had  in  life,  and  they  are  in  accordance  with  the  amount  the 
blessed  pious  can  afford  to  pay.  If  we  could  renounce  sects 
and  factions,  and  all  worship  the  one  God  in  simplicity  and 
faith ;  but  that  cannot  be  done,  for  the  thousands  who  would 
be  reduced  to  want  would  be  fearful  to  contemplate.  There 
are  no  fatter  birds  in  the  land  to  be  plucked  than  these  same 
fanatical  sects,  and  no  adroiter  hands  to  pluck  them  than  the 
pusillanimous,  sycophantic  proclaimers  of  religion,  each  with 
his  new  patent  way  to  heaven  at  reduced  rates.  Plague  take 
my  cynical  misanthropy !  I  will  not  constitute  myself  judge 
of  others ;  for  to-night,  in  this  wilderness,  under  the  cold 
stars,  something  has  spoken  to  my  heart.  I  bow  reverently 
henceforth  to  the  Almighty  Power  that  governs  me ;  in  this 
age  of  progress  I  have  gone  back  to  the  time  when  God  walked 
with  men.  It  is  His  hand  that  has  led  me." 

Bob  Rivers  —  Mr.  Carlton  —  banker.  It  is  the  first  time  you 
have  ridden  alone  at  midnight  in  search  of  one  who  can  bring 


FREE    PRISONERS.  25  I 

freedom  and  happiness  to  those  you  love.  It  is  the  first  time  the 
spirit  of  death  has  hovered  over  you ;  so  near,  it  may  have  fled 
and  left  your  efforts  unrewarded.  You  are  doing  a  noble  deed 
of  humanity.  It  fills  your  heart  and  soul  with  light  and  peace 
that  transforms  life.  Nothing  is  changed,  only  your  eyes  are 
looking  inward  instead  of  outward.  We  can  all  find  new  worlds 
in  ourselves,  if  we  only  explore  for  them. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE   HARVESTER,    DEATH. 

"  The  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone  ;   the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom." —  William  Cullen  Bryant. 

SLOWLY  the  night  was  passing  away,  and  with  it  the  life  of 
the  young  desperado  in  Widow  Neal's  cottage.    So  quietly 
and  peacefully  was  his  soul  going  out,  it  did  not  seem  pos 
sible  it  could  belong  to  such  a  stormy  life.     The  widow,  who 
had  tenderly  led  him  to  this  peaceful  end,  sat  by  his  side  wiping 
away  the  death-dews  that  gathered  upon  his  brow,  softly  speak 
ing  of  peace  and  rest  —  eternal,  perfect. 

In  the  adjoining  room  Walter  and  Linda  talked  softly  of  the 
past,  the  future,  and  the  present,  over  which  the  spirit  of  death 
was  hovering. 

Apart  sat  Major  Warren,  where  he  could  watch  the  sick  man's 
bed.  His  thoughts  were  of  the  mother  who  had  cast  her 
children  upon  the  uncertain  sea  of  fate,  to  perish  or  to  live,  as 
it  might  chance,  and  he  said  to  himself,  "It  is  well  she  is  gone. 


252  FREE    PRISONERS. 

She  would  have  no  place  here."  Suddenly  he  sprang  up, 
approached  the  dying  man's  bed,  and  whispered : 

"Young  man,  when  you  were  a  little  boy,  you  had  a  baby 
sister.  You  know  how  you  were  parted.  Would  it  be  any 
pleasure  for  you  to  see  her  once  again  ?  " 

Bill  turned  his  large  dark  eyes  upon  the  Major's  face  with  a 
yearning,  longing  appeal : 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  have  never  known  a  human  being  who  was  any 
kin  to  me.  Let  me  hold  her  hand  in  mine  just  once." 

Day  was  breaking  when  Bob  returned  with  the  teamster. 
Again  the  door  was  closed,  and  the  widow  excluded.  The 
teamster  stood  staring  at  the  dying  man. 

"  Do  you  recognize  me?  "  asked  Bill. 

"I  can't  say  I  do,  and  yit  you  look  like  that  there  young 
man." 

" I  am  that  young  man,"  said  Bill,  emphatically.  "It  was  my 
half-brother  you  mistook  for  me,  and  sent  to  State's  prison." 

"  So  this  here  gentleman  told  me;  but  it  don't  seem  I  could 
make  sich  a  mistake." 

"  Did  it  not  seem  a  little  strange  to  you  that  the  young  man 
made  no  charges  against  you?"  asked  Bill,  with  great  effort. 

"  Charges  agin  me?  "     The  man  seemed  greatly  surprised. 

"Yes;  charges  against  you.  That  he  did  not  tell  how  you 
pointed  your  pistol  at  him  first,  and  demanded  his  'coin.' 
How  he  answered,  taking  his  gun  and  turning  the  tables,  by 
making  the  same  demand  of  you,  to  punish  your  rascality." 

"  By  gal,  young  man,  you  speak  the  truth.  That  young  man 
never  said  a  word  agin  me ;  and  it  has  worried  me  more  than 
anything  in  my  life  ever  done  before." 

"  It  was  because  he  was  innocent.  He  did  not  know  what 
you  had  done." 

"Well,  young  man,  will  you  just  tell  me  where  we  were 
when  it  happened?" 


FREE    PRISONERS.  253 

Slowly,  with  many  resting  spells,  Bill  recounted  the  whole 
scene.  The  teamster  knelt  by  the  bedside,  took  one  of  Bill's 
thin,  wasted  hands  in  his,  and,  with  tears  coursing  down  his 
sunburnt  cheeks,  sobbed  aloud  : 

"Young  man,  it  was  the  first  time  I  ever  done  sich  a  thing, 
and  the  last,  and  you  served  me  right.  I  will  do  anything  in 
the  world  for  you  now.  This  here  gentleman  wants  me  to  go 
to  the  Governor  to  git  the  innocent  young  man  out  o' jail,  and 
I  '11  go ;  you  can  count  on  me." 

Bill's  mission  in  life  was  ended.  He  turned  his  head  away 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

The  teamster  quietly  left  the  sick  chamber,  as  Major  Warren 
entered,  leading  Alice  by  the  hand,  trembling  and  bewildered, 
called  from  sleep  to  her  long-lost  brother's  deathbed.  They 
were  all  surprised  at  her  appearance,  but  no  one  uttered  a  word. 
The  Major  led  her  gently  to  the  bed  and  placed  her  hand  in 
Bill's,  as  he  said,  softly : 

"  It  is  the  hand  of  your  sister  Alice,  dear  boy —  parted  from 
you  in  life,  united  in  death." 

Bill  opened  his  great  eyes,  that  had  become  dim  and  distant. 
A  new  fire  burned  in  them.  He  slowly  raised  the  hand  to  his 
lips  and  kissed  it,  murmuring,  " Alice,  my  sister." 

Alice  stooped  and  kissed  the  damp  forehead,  as  she  whis 
pered,  "Is  it  possible,  after  all,  we  meet  too  late?" 

"Yes,  too  late;  but  better  so.  Kiss  me  once  again,  sweet 
sister." 

Alice  leaned  over  the  dying  man  and  kissed  him  again. 
The  Widow  Neal  came  softly  to  the  bedside.     He  gave  her  a 
long  look  of  love.     A  smile  played  upon  his  wasted,  manly  face, 
and  the  soul  of  Bill  Brown,  the  outlaw,  the  discarded  son,  took 
its  flight  heavenward. 

At  Alice's  request,  the  remains  were  sent  to  Sacramento,  and 


254  FREE    PRISONERS. 

Major  Warren  had  them  interred  by  the  side  of  his  mother, 
from  whom  he  had  been  parted  in  life,  and  perhaps  in  death. 
Yet  they  were  mother  and  son. 

After  the  sad  event  of  Bill's  death,  Walter,  whose  claim  upon 
Linda  was  no  longer  disputed,  insisted  upon  taking  her  and  her 
mother  home  with  him  at  once.  Then  there  were  Lucy  and 
the  baby.  Bob  claimed  them  as  his  guests  in  the  most  peremp 
tory  manner. 

The  cottage  was  left  in  the  hands  of  an  agent  for  sale,  and 
those  whose  lives  had  been  parted  in  so  many  devious  ways, 
to  be  reunited  there,  left  it  with  a  feeling  of  sadness,  never  to 
return  to  it  any  more  as  their  home. 

At  Sacramento  they  lingered  one  day  to  bury  their  dead, 
which  gave  Bob  and  the  teamster,  who  had  accompanied  them, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  the  rest  of  the  party,  time  to  fulfil  the 
last  request  of  the  departed  dead.  The  Governor's  pardon 
was,  without  difficulty,  obtained  for  Ben  Wetherell.  Bob  bade 
the  teamster  good-by,  and  he  religiously  promised  to  keep  the 
secret  of  the  dying  confession  in  his  own  heart. 

The  following  day,  as  our  friends  were  approaching  the  boat, 
on  their  way  to  San  Francisco,  their  attention  was  attracted  to 
a  group  of  men  standing  near  the  gang-plank.  In  their  midst, 
and  evidently  the  object  of  their  curiosity,  stood  a  human 
skeleton.  He  was  gesticulating  wildly,  trying  to  make  his  feeble 
voice  heard  amid  the  din. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  must  go.  I'm  an  escaped  convict,  and  want 
to  give  myself  up  to  the  authorities." 

"  Get  away,  you  crazy  old  loon.  Hain't  I  told  you  a  dozen 
times  folks  can't  float  on  this  'ere  boat  without  the  tin  to  pay?" 
growled  a  burly  porter,  pushing  Jack  Hunter  aside. 

Poor  Jack,  too  feeble  to  resist  the  slightest  blow,  fell  pros 
trate  across  the  plank,  just  as  our  friends  were  about  going  on 
board  the  boat. 


FREE    PRISONERS. 

Linda  saw  the  emaciated  face,  and  recognized  it  at  once. 

"Oh,  mother,  it  is  Jack  Hunter.  Walter,  help  him  up, 
do." 

Mrs.  Neal  bent  over  the  prostrate  form,  took  the  bony  hand 
in  hers  to  assist  him.  He  turned  his  wild  eyes  upon  her,  and 
gave  one  despairing  cry,  "Agnes  !  " 

"Yes,  Jack,  it  is  I,"  answered  the  widow,  kindly. 

"Go  on  board ;  I  will  attend  to  him,"  said  Walter. 

Mrs.  Neal  started  to  obey,  but  the  bony  hand  clutched  hers, 
and,  with  a  heart-rending  wail,  Jack  begged,  "For  heaven's 
sake,  do  not  leave  me." 

"Mrs.  Neal  will  not  leave  you,"  answered  Walter,  kindly, 
raising  him  to  his  feet.  "  You  wanted  to  go  down  the  river, 
did  you  not?" 

"Yes,  sir;  but  I  had  no  money,  and  they  would  not  let  me 

go." 

"You  shall  go,  and  comfortably,  too.  Porter,  assist  this 
man  to  my  state-room." 

Jack  turned  his  great  eyes  thankfully  upon  Walter,  and  asked, 
in  a  frightened  way  : 

"  Can  she  stay  with  me?  "  pointing  toward  Mrs.  Neal. 

"Yes,  I  will  stay  with  you,  Jack,"  answered  the  widow. 

Again  Mrs.  Neal  sat  by  the  bedside  of  a  departing  spirit. 
The  sands  of  Jack  Hunter's  life  were  fast  running  out.  That 
last  great  effort  to  give  himself  up  to  justice,  and  return  to 
prison,  was  too  much  for  the  dying  man.  The  reaction,  and 
the  blow  that  had  felled  him,  shattered  the  life  that  was  held  by 
a  very  slender  tenure. 

Walter  and  Linda  watched  with  Mrs.  Neal,  but,  before  the 
boat  reached  San  Francisco  that  night,  the  mortal  Jack  Hunter 
lay  still  and  lifeless,  and  the  spiritual  Jack  had  gone  to  that  rest 
and  peace  which  he  "could  never  find  on  earth  any  more." 


FREE    PRISONERS. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

FINALE. 

"  La  patience  est  amere,  mais  son  fruit  est  doux." 

Rousseau. 

ALICE  was  inclined  to  be  melancholy  over  the  events  of 
her  brother's  death,  and  the  revelations  of  her  own  strange 
history,  which  Major  Warren  felt  she  and  Bob  had  better 
know.  So  Bob  insisted  upon  her  attending  the  marriage  of 
Walter  and  Linda,  which  was  to  take  place  the  evening  after 
their  arrival  in  San  Francisco. 

Major  Warren  also  accepted  the  invitation  to  accompany  the 
party,  and  participate  in  the  marriage  festivities,  which  were  to 
be  entirely  enfamille,  with  George  and  Nellie.  Notwithstand 
ing  the  shadows  of  death  that  had  hovered  over  them,  they  had 
been  messengers  of  rest  to  the  weary  and  afflicted,  that  could 
not  leave  deep  traces  of  sorrow. 

Poor  Lucy,  with  her  bright  little  girl,  quietly  followed  the 
others,  evidently  with  little  interest  in  what  was  transpiring. 
The  following  morning,  when  all  were  busy  over  Linda's  ap 
proaching  marriage,  she  stood  aside  in  a  bow  window,  watching 
the  passers-by,  with  an  occasional  unruly  tear  stealing  its  way 
down  her  cheek  in  spite  of  her  efforts  at  self-control. 

Linda  approached  her  silently,  put  her  arm  about  her,  and 
said,  in  her  sweet  way : 

' 'Cheer  up,  Lucy,  on  my  wedding  day.  I  know  that  happi 
ness  and  mirth  sink  heavily  into  your  sad  heart,  but  Ben  is  with 
us  in  spirit,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  see  him.  It  is  doubly  sad 


FREE    PRISONERS. 

to  have  him  so  near,  and  yet  so  entirely  separated  from  us ;  but 
patience,  dear  sister,  and  no  tears  on  my  wedding  day,  re 
member.  ' ' 

"I  have  brought  my  wife  to  you  early  this  morning,"  said 
Bob,  entering  in  the  most  unceremonious  way,  leading  Alice  by 
the  hand,  "  because  the  Major,  Mr.  French,  and  myself  have 
to  attend  to  the  burial  of  that  poor  fellow  down  town,  and  I 
did  not  want  to  leave  her  alone."  He  turned  to  Lucy,  and 
took  her  hand  with  a  bright  smile.  "  Cheer  up,  little  woman  ; 
there  are  no  clouds  in  the  heavens:  it  is  a  perfect  day." 
Then  hurriedly  joining  the  gentlemen  who  were  waiting  for 
him,  they  faithfully  attended  to  the  burial  of  Jack  Hunter. 
Bob  had  confided  to  them  the  pardon  of  the  unfortunate  Ben 
Wetherell,  who  was  suffering  for  the  sins  of  his  brother,  and 
they  took  the  first  boat  to  San  Quentin  to  free  the  captive  and 
make  that  night  one  of  festivity  and  happiness  to  all.  They 
found  him  performing  the  last  sad  duties  toward  the  heart 
broken  Walker.  It  seemed  a  harvest-time  of  wretched  mortals 
weary  of  life. 

The  good  tidings  quite  overcame  Ben.  He  wept  like  a  child. 
Soon  mastering  himself,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  straight,  command 
ing  as  ever,  and,  with  the  same  manly  bearing,  but  an  expres 
sion  of  sadness  sorrow  had  stamped  upon  his  handsome  face, 
that  made  it  handsomer  than  ever,  he  exclaimed : 

"At  last  they  know  I  am  innocent !  " 

"  No,"  answered  Walter ;  "  they  know  nothing.  This  is  to 
be  my  wedding  night,  and  we  have  kept  the  secret  to  fill  them 
all  with  joy  —  to  fill  every  heart  with  happiness." 

"Can  it  be  my  wedding  night,  too?  "  asked  Ben,  dreamily. 

Walter  and  Bob  exchanged  glances.  Could  there  be  any 
thing  wrong  with  him  ?  Had  the  joyful  tidings  been  too  sudden  ? 

"Your  wedding   night  ?"  repeated    Walter.      "  Why,  man, 

22*  R 


258  FREE    PRISONERS. 

you  were  married  long  ago.  Your  wife  and  child  await  you 
now  at  my  sister's  house." 

"Yes,"  answered  Ben,  looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  "  I 
was  married  long  ago  under  the  name  of  Wetherell.  It  is  not 
legal.  I  want  to  begin  life  over  again  under  my  real  name.  I 
have  suffered  enough.  The  sins  of  my  father  have  been  visited 
heavily  upon  me.  With  these  felon's  clothes,  I  cast  off  the  old 
life  and  name  that  gave  it  place.  To-night  let  me  be  married 
to  my  wife,  and  give  her  legally  the  name  which  is  justly  ours.  '  ' 

Walter  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  fervently.  "It  shall  be 
as  you  wish." 

It  was  a  festival  of  perfect  happiness  ;  all  the  more  as  the 
fruit  of  long-suffering.  Mrs.  Neal  stood  by  her  children  as 
they  were  united  to  those  they  loved  —  the  Widow  Neal's  chil 
dren.  The  name  of  Wetherell  was  dead;  the  life  of  the 
Wetherells  was  dead,  and  the  memory  of  it  only  known  to  that 
small  circle  of  friends,  who  had  all  suffered  from  it  in  some  way. 
It  was  a  sad  heritage,  sacredly  buried  from  the  world.  To  see 
the  happy  Grandmother  Neal  of  to-day,  no  one  could  dream  of 
the  tempest  that  had  tossed  her  upon  such  a  peaceful  shore. 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


THE   END. 


